


Born To Take Care Of You

by WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (so also slight references to torture), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, But Azirafell doesn't know, Crowley is Raphael, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Footnotes, Gift Fic, Good Omens Holiday Swap, Holy Water, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, It's a right mess, M/M, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Slow Burn, Spanish Inquisition, that got wildly out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: "Which Duke do you work under?" Azirafell asked conversationally, snapping a mug of something hot and sweet into existence and taking a sip. "Because I do hope they're considering you for promotion.""Ngh?" Raphael blinked, feeling a little like the muddy rug had been pulled out from beneath him. "What?""Well, an enterprising young demon like you…" Azirafell smiled at him in a way that was all Lecherous Temptation, Raphael could tell from the detestable effect it had on the very pit of his stomach. "...ought togo places,in my humble opinion.""Hah." Said Raphael, very lost. "Demon?"In which the Archangel Raphael watches over humanity, prevents the End of the World, and spends 6000 years falling in love with a demon who doesn't even know his real name.It's fine......until Heaven finds out, that is.
Relationships: Adam from Eden & Aziraphale & Eve (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 253
Kudos: 1455
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Wickedly Good Omens Fics





	1. At The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Butcher_of_Blaviken_666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butcher_of_Blaviken_666/gifts).



> Happy Holidays!  
> (Well. First day of December...)  
> This fic is a holiday swap present for NemophilishWithin, and I'll post a new chapter each advent Sunday!
> 
> (Nemo: I really hope you like it! There's not much of your requested content in the first chapter, and I fear my writing style generally lends itself much more to humour than horror - plus, you'll notice I added a pretty major new plot point - but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!)  
> (And, who knows, maybe there'll be something extra, like, say, an illustration or two, to make up for it... ;))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author spends entirely too much time on Eve, and a demon and an archangel first hear of each other.

It was a ghastly day.

All the days - a few more than seven so far, and counting - had been some measure of miserable, since God had invented rain early on, and was evidently quite taken with it.

And in the Garden*, a woman** had taken shelter under the branches of a tree.

*It need not be specified which Garden, seeing as there had only been one of them at the time.

**Likewise, we need not point out how the woman was young and dark-skinned, with curious brown eyes; after all, there were no old or pale-skinned women with watery green eyes around just yet.

A lizard was sprawled on a nearby branch, munching on something undefined. (The Esteemed Reader that has studied zoology might recognise it as a _pogona vitticeps_ , or bearded dragon.)

"Oh dear. It really is raining cats and dogs, isn't it?" Said a rather melodious voice that would one day lend itself to posh British vowels.

"What?" Answered the woman, whose name, we may divulge, was Eve.

"I said," repeated the lizard, blinking lazily over at her, "that it is raining cats and dogs."

"...I suppose." Eve peered up at the sky. "Mostly water though."

It occurred to her that, perhaps, it was unwise to speak to something that usually did not possess the ability to talk back; however, the Almighty had often addressed them through bushes and the like, so one talking lizard couldn't be so bad.

(Could it?)

The lizard chuckled softly.

"Quite, my dear." He stretched, little horns shifting with his movements, appearing more menacing than they really were. "Very observant of you."

Eve's eyes narrowed. "Are you making fun of me?"

(Despite having been on earth for only a short time span, Eve had already developed a keen sense of Looking Out For Oneself, something that Adam, the big caring lug, still struggled with.)

"Naturally not!" The lizard - as far as lizards could - looked quite affronted.

"Only, you were using the funny voice." Eve pressed. "The same that Mother uses when She's sick of me asking questions, and just wants me to be quiet."

She paused.

"She shouldn't have given me a mouth, if She didn't want me to talk."

The lizard propped his beard-like chin on one clawed paw, smirking. "Quite agree, dear girl. You really _are_ a bright one, who knew."

(Also said in a quite funny voice, but Eve carefully chose to ignore it.)

"I've been trying to embroil _the other one_ in conversation all morning," the lizard continued. "He attempted to hit me with a large stick."

"Yeah, Adam does that," she nodded. He seemed to enjoy waving things about. Eve wasn't quite sure of the appeal yet.

"Do you like him?" Said the lizard suddenly.

"Who?" Eve blinked.

"Adam."

"Oh." Eve blinked again. "Well. He's... alright."*

*Just like with waving sticks about, she clearly didn't see the general appeal of _men_ yet.

"Hm." The lizard seemed deeply contemplative.

"But he always does what Mother says, going around the Garden naming all the animals, and… it gets boring." Eve slumped against the bark of the tree, nudging a nearby plant with her foot until the rain collected in its leafs splashed to the ground. "Don't know what we'll do when that's all done."

"...I have an idea." Said the lizard, in the cautious way of one handing over a bomb they know damn well is ticking. "But I don't think She'd approve at all."

"Oh?" Eve blinked, but it was an eager blink now. For all that she'd been talked to in The Funny Voice, she'd never been disapproved of, and it sounded quite smashing, honestly.

"You recall, surely, the Apple Tree the Almighty instructed you never to eat from?"

"The one we're sitting under?"

The lizard blinked upwards.

"Oh. So we are. Precisely that one, yes."

"What about it?"

"Well." The lizard glanced about shiftily. "You didn't hear it from _me_ , of course… but I gather this Tree is, in fact, a Tree of Knowledge, and its fruit will let you Know.*"

*In more senses than one, _biblically._

Eve was intrigued.

She had so many things she wanted to understand - about how the world worked, why God had made them, and why she sometimes went tingly in her chest when Adam carried heavy things around for Her with his muscles all on display - and eating a little bit of fruit seemed the only way to understanding, seeing as Mother so categorically refused to explain any of it to her.*

*God simply wasn't prepared to give her the "birds and bees" talk, since She'd only just invented both, and wasn't exactly sure on the peculiars Herself just yet.

Eve reached for one of the apples… and paused.

"But… I'll be punished." She said hesitantly.

"My dear girl." The lizard gently patted the back of her rain-wet hand with his little claw-tipped paw. "Some things deserve punishment, and some do not. I am something of an expert on the matter, and I will tell you, if it were _me_ , I would decide you were absolutely blameless."

"But She's not you. Is She?" Eve pointed out very shrewdly.

The lizard was silent for a very long while.

"No." He said softly, after that very, _very_ long while; and there was something dark glimmering in his beady little eyes, a bit as if a fluffy cloud had simply evaporated beneath him, leaving him to plunge down into darkness and sulphur pits with a cry of terrified agony.

"I don't suppose She is."

Eve thought about it, long and hard.

Imagined how the rest of this endless day would go, sitting or walking around the Garden in the rain; and how the one after would be exactly like it, and the one after _that,_ too.

She wished the lizard would say something, but he was quiet again.

"I think," said Eve, reaching up to pluck an Apple from the Tree of Knowledge. "I'll take my chances with Her."

And with that, she took a bite.

And she _Knew._ *

*She also found she didn't really like the taste of apples, but that was entirely circumstantial.

  
  
  


The lizard, as much as lizards could, pulled his mouth into a quietly proud smile, gazing up to the heavens.

"I do believe," he said, and Eve noticed his beady eyes were a bright, clear blue - the same colour as the sky would be, if it weren't overhung with dark clouds - "that the weather is clearing up."

"Hmm." Eve said, and took another bite.

And above them, the sun was indeed tentatively shining.

  
  


* * *

"Be Not Afraid." The Archangel Raphael spoke, descending from Heaven in all his glory, white robes billowing, and wings spread gloriously, and the Radiance of the Lord shining about him. "I come only to bring aid unto you, Her Children, so that-"

"About time!" Adam snapped.

"-you may- ...huh?" Raphael blinked golden eyes in confusion. "What?"

"I've been praying myself hoarse for hours!" Adam glared. "Now fix her."*

*Attitudes such as this would soon cause a change in Heaven's prayer-response policy, but for now, it was still mandatory to answer, at the very least with a semi-compassionate "suck it up".

He pointed to Eve, who was very obviously in terrible pain.

"Ngk," Raphael said, a little thrown. None of this had been in the angel-human encounters manual. "Yeah."

He pulled his actually very impractical wings close to his back, and ducked into the improvised little hut the two lived in.

Peered at Eve.

Cocked his head to the side, absently tugging at one radiant-copper lock of hair.

"Er." Raphael eventually muttered. "I think she's giving birth…?"*

*He sounded very unsure about it, not least because, for all that he was a healer of humans, he had flunked out of Heaven's human biology 101 course with a frankly embarrassing halfway grade, and had only read up on the functionalities of his own corporation far enough to learn how to do some very strange things with his tongue.

"She what?" Frowned Adam, who still thought new humans came from spare ribs the Almighty pulled out of your chest.

"You're going to be a father." Raphael took a slightly closer look, and pulled the kind of grimace outsiders often exhibited when so directly confronted with the miracle of life. "In, uh, a few minutes, I guess."

"...oh _God."*_ Adam said, looking a little scared and a lot queasy.

*Marking the very first instance of the Lord's Name being taken in vain, though the Esteemed Reader will surely agree it was entirely justified in this case.

Eve screamed.

"Can't you help her?" Adam urged. "Heal her?"

Raphael suddenly took great interest in his golden fingernails.

The crux of the matter was, the Almighty had been _very_ clear about having exiled the humans, and punishing Eve with this whole pregnancy lark, and how Her Great Plan was not to be disobeyed.

Surely, if people were punished so harshly, they deserved it. 

...didn't they?

An angel could get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing at the wrong time...

"Look." Raphael began helplessly, trying not to look at either of them. "I. I ought not… don't think this is covered by prayer regulations… shouldn't..."

" _Please!_ " Adam grabbed his arm in desperation. "I _love_ her, I can't bear to watch her suffer!"*

*This was still before the first death of course, and it never occurred to the poor guy that humans could die at all, much less in childbed.

Raphael had heard only very little of the way humans loved each other, and if this was what it caused, he wasn't sure if he wanted any part of it.

"I'm sorry." He pried Adam's fingers away. "I mustn't."

He paused in the doorway, and discovered that he had something thoroughly impractical for an archangel: a soft heart.

"UNLESS." Raphael said, very loudly. "You've not, perchance, seen anyone wielding a pitchfork recently?"

"A what?" Adam said, because of course pitchforks hadn't been invented yet.*

*That task would fall to an enterprising demon who liked the posterior-stabbing potential of lances, but wished to streamline the process into three wounds per poke.

"Reddish skin?" Raphael tried. "Little horns?"

"We have a goat…?"

"Does it talk in dark tongues about sin and temptations?" Raphael pressed, desperate to make this work somehow.

"No." Adam frowned. "It just bleats. What's that got to do with anything?"

Raphael groaned softly.

"Look." He began, rather more patiently than the situation rightly deserved. "Has there been anything, _anything at all,_ that was out of the ordinary or, _in_ _some obscure, far-fetched way,_ sinister? Even a little bit?"

(The way Raphael saw it, Heaven could _hardly_ object if he were thwarting some potential demonic wile, could they?

He would have to act as quickly as possible - and therefore naturally be unable to inquire whether the Great Plan allowed for it - to counteract demonic involvement with the First Birth, of course. One or two preventative miracles on Eve, and maybe his hand slipped into a bit of healing, muscle memory, whoops-a-daisy.

All perfectly reasonable.

Would be a real feather in his wing, too.)

Adam thought.*

*This wasn't exactly easy for him. Adam was a sterling guy, certainly, but not exactly the greatest thinker of his age, no matter how little competition there currently was.

"Well…" he began slowly. "There's that talking lizard Eve likes to speak wi-"

"Good enough, I'll take it." Raphael interrupted, pushing past him with an industrial-strength healing miracle already brewing in his Angelic Soul, and making only the smallest mental note to follow up on the unusually chatty reptile population around these parts.

For now, though, he had a child to deliver.

  
  


* * *

Eve, nursing her newborn at her breast, glared.

And glared.

And _glared._

"Would it help," asked the lizard guiltily, "if I said that I think this whole birthing matter is a cruel and unusual punishment for merely letting a friendly neighbourhood reptile talk you into a healthy little snack?"

"No," Eve said through gritted teeth, "it would _not._ "

"Ah." The lizard looked even more guilty. "An apology then?"

Eve's glare intensified.

"...no?"

"Do you know how _painful_ that was!?" Eve snapped.

"Roughly like your angelic essence burning away, and hitting the boiling sulphur pool hard after an eternal Fall?" The lizard suggested.

"Worse _._ "

"Oh dear."

" _Yes._ "

They were silent for a while.

"I really _am_ sorry." Said the lizard earnestly.

"I know." Eve sighed. "It's alright."

More silence.

The baby fussed, and the lizard acquired a look in his eyes that was half the urge to coo, and half surprise that he had such impulses at all.

"Would you like to hold him?" Eve offered.

The lizard met her eyes with a raised brow, which was as tiny and lizard-like as the rest of him, and Eve realised how stupid a question that had been.*

*Probably miracle residue making her a hint loopy.

"Sorry. Didn't think-"

"No, no." The lizard interrupted her thoughtfully. "If you would give me a moment or two..."

He seemed to concentrate.

Nothing happened.

"I am working on it." The lizard muttered in a strained voice. "Where is your man*, by the way?

*Even if Adam was the only one currently in existence, he was still most certainly _her_ man, whether the clarification was needed or not _._

"He said he'd go milk the goats* six hours ago." Eve shrugged. "It's alright, he can look after himself."

*Even though this sounded a lot like the pre-civilisation version of going to the shops to buy cigarettes (and never returning), Adam was indeed merely busy milking the goats, the delay due to pausing continuously to mutter _"we have a son"_ in a dazed-yet-pleased voice over and over.

"I'm sure he can." The lizard muttered, and suddenly was no longer a lizard.

Where there had been a reptile only moments ago, there now sat a man-shaped being, with bright blue eyes and wickedly sharp lizard claws, and draped in a robe of the same sandy tone as the bearded dragon's leathery skin.

It should be noted that the wings extending from his back were substantially better-groomed than Raphael's, and aside from that, very similar in shape.

"Huh." Said Eve, looking him up and down. "I thought you'd be younger, Azirafell."

* * *

"...Azirafell." Raphael muttered to himself, tapping one nail distractedly against the file. "Also: Baron Fell. Master of Eternal Torments, suspected of Tempting Eve into committing the First Sin. Demonic Aspect: Lizard (Bearded Dragon). Assigned corporation:T372=b, only lightly corrupted in the Fall."

He frowned.

"Baron Fell. What _are_ you doing, messing about with humans and earth?"

* * *

"For your information, dear girl, I was assigned this." Azirafell huffed, wriggling slightly in the unfamiliar body. "There's not been much freedom of choice, obviously."

"Obviously." Eve echoed, and then held the baby out to him.

Azirafell took him from her arms with a gentleness she wouldn't have expected from someone with two-inch claws on all of his fingers, cradling the little thing in the crook of his arm.

"We were thinking of calling him Cain." Eve informed him.

Azirafell hummed.

"Very modern sound, Cain, really."

Another hum, and a gaze at the baby that was nothing short of besotted.

Eve continued studying him.

"Are you all that… milk-coloured?" She finally asked.

"Hm?" Azirafell blinked.

"Your colleague was the same. It's very odd-looking, you know."

"Colleague?"

"The one who helped me with the birth. He was one of… your people."

Blue eyes narrowed. "Describe him to me."

"Wings like yours," Eve began. "And… he looked a little more like Adam in body, but hair as long as mine. And red."

"His skin?"

"No, his hair."

"Ah."

"And he had a little snake here." Eve touched her finger to the side of her face. "He was quite helpful, in the end. If he ever comes back, I'll ask him if he wants to join you in being one of Cain's godfathers. He isn't a friend of yours, is he?"

Now, at this point, we must clarify something for the Esteemed Reader:

Eve, kept lamentably out of the loop of Heavenly politics by the Almighty, did not actually know to distinguish between angels and demons.

In part, this was because Azirafell was the only demon she had ever met, and with his very similar - just fewer - wings and colouring as Raphael, he didn't exactly strike her as "not-like" him, or the angels she had seen patrolling the Walls of Eden.

Azirafell, firstly, assumed she _was_ aware of the distinction; and, secondly, he was _quite_ sure that Heaven would stick firmly to their policy of non-interference when it came to those Fallen from grace and exiled from the Garden.

Thus, the conclusion he jumped to was perfectly understandable.

"Not yet," Azirafell said, vowing to find out which minor snake demon - because why would an _angel_ defy Heaven by aiding the exiled humans against Her will!? - had assisted Eve, and to promptly befriend him. "But he will be."

He had a feeling they could be the very best of friends, him and that fellow demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy first advent to those of you who celebrate!
> 
> (And a special <3 to Nemo!)
> 
> Next chapter will be up in a week's time.


	2. In The Middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a demon and an archangel finally encounter each other, and Raphael doesn't like Azirafell at all (until he does).
> 
> (I changed the relationship tags - there's no Aziraphale & Eve, sadly - don't know why my mind went Crowley & Eve originally... maybe because demonic reptile friendship?  
> Also, because I forgot to mention in the first chapter, the title is from Queen's "I Was Born To Love You" from the Made In Heaven album.)

Raphael fought his way through the muddy waves beating against his waist, clutching the terrified child tightly to his chest and doing his very best to shield her from the whipping rain.

He grasped the side of the float already laden with three full families and a number of assorted children, and heaved the girl onto it.

"May-" he began, and then had to raise his voice against the howling storm.

"MAY THE LORD PRESERVE YOU!" Raphael shouted. "MAY THE BIRDS BRING NOURISHMENT UNTO YOU! MAY YOU HAVE FOOD AND DRINK TO SUSTAIN YOU THROUGH THE FLOOD-" he took a deep breath, swallowed water, coughed, continued. "-AND MAY THE LAND WELCOME YOU IN GOOD HEALTH ONCE THE STORM HAS PASSED!"

Then he blessed the raft with any and all power at his disposal, and set them off into the wide, furious expanse of the quickly-growing sea.

There was no time to watch it become a speck against the distant horizon.

Exhausted, sodden and altogether miserable, Raphael waded back up the hillside, thinking altogether too blasphemous thoughts, and miserably contemplating how he was not only aiding sinful humans in defiance of Her Plan - he was doing it _again._

A fantastic track record that was. He ought to win Angel of the Millennium one of these days, proudly display the mug in his barren office as if it mattered at all.

He attempted to miracle himself back up to Heaven, but his wings felt far too heavy and his Celestial Soul far too weary to get him any further than the lower stratosphere.

Crawling further up the muddy hill, Raphael made for a rickety half-destroyed hut that might provide the least little bit of shelter, so he might curl up for as long as the rising water allowed, and hope he regained his strength quickly enough.

(Raphael didn't want to think about what might happen if he didn't.)

The hut was damp; but, then again, so was everything else these days.

Raphael sat down as far from the gaping hole in the wall as his shelter's limited proportions allowed, and resolutely Did Not pray.

Heaven mustn't know what he'd done, after all. He'd taken great pains to fully conceal his wings on another plane of existence, and exchanged his Angelic robes for something more _neutral_ \- though, what with the mud and dirt, it scarcely mattered anymore - so it would be a shame to have all his attempts at disguise be in vain.

Raphael curled up with a shiver. Angels need not feel cold, but it seemed unfair to feel warmth while the poor (surviving) humans were freezing out there.

"I'll have you know, dear fellow," purred a voice into the dark and damp, "that finding you has simply been _a pain._ "

Raphael jerked back up into attentiveness, wildly blinking around for, for-

Oh.

Oh _no_.

A demon was leaning close to him, eyes blue and soulless, twinkling with the dark delight of one gearing up to pluck the wings from an insect.

As intimidatingly beautiful as all the warning pamphlets said demons were,* and Raphael was so reluctantly enthralled by this facade that it took him a moment to realise the hands folded over the demon's generous midriff were tipped with lizard claws, and his corporation seemed to be a slightly-corrupted T372=b.

*"Be Not Enchanted by the Wicked Ones' wiles! Their beauty is but gauze upon a festering wound, and should the fine layer be ripped apart, the horror of the Hellish shall shine through and reveal their true natures!"

(Or, simpler: for Her sake, think with your _upper_ brain when encountering a demon!)

"Hnguh," Raphael responded, and wondered if praying for help wasn't, perhaps, not such a bad idea after all.

"You may not know me-" _Oh yes, I do._ "-so, to introduce myself: Azirafell. We shared a good, dear friend, once upon a time, when there was still rather little of it… and of friends, too."

He held out one hand.

Raphael stared down at it as if it was going to rip his head off - which, really, it might well do.

"You need not be intimidated." Azirafell soothed, tactfully returning his hand to himself rather than letting it hang unacknowledged. "And apologies for startling you. I realise you were not expecting company, especially considering the state you are in."

 _I was not expecting to be killed while I am virtually powerless after making sure a handful of miserable human children live to see how even more miserable adulthood is, yes._ Raphael wanted to say.

Instead, he said "ngk", and shivered.

"Oh, here." Azirafell snapped his fingers - _somehow_ , considering the claws - and a blanket settled about Raphael's shaking shoulders.*

*Strange. None of the pamphlets had said anything about demons toying with their prey in this manner, playing at caring before they delivered the killing blow.

But, then again, Azirafell _was_ the Master of Eternal Torments. Probably testing out a new and exceptionally vile strategy, now that the opportunity had presented itself so nicely.

"I have to say, I'm very impressed with your work." The demon continued, demon-ly. "Saving the sinful. Admirable."*

*Yep. Yep, definitely a new form of torture.

"Which Duke do you work under?" Azirafell asked conversationally, snapping a mug of something hot and sweet into existence and taking a sip. "Because I do hope they're considering you for promotion."

"Ngh?" Raphael blinked, feeling a little like the muddy rug had been pulled out from beneath him. "What?"

"Well, an enterprising young demon like you…" Azirafell smiled at him in a way that was all Lecherous Temptation, Raphael could tell from the detestable effect it had on the very pit of his stomach. "...ought to _go places_ , in my humble opinion."

"Hah." Said Raphael, very lost. "Demon?"

"Oh, apologies. Do you prefer serpent? I know, I should have asked."

"Hng. Nah. Demon. S'fine."*

*The dirty clothes. The absent wings, and the Asclepius snake at the side of his face, barely recognisable in the dim light of the hut. Of course. Of course. It all made sense, in a perverse sort of way.

"I've been attempting to find you ever since darling Eve spoke so highly of you… you are not one of Hastur's, are you? No, no, the old brute would long have complained about a visionary mind like yours. Baal? Lillith?"

Now, the way Raphael saw it, he had two options.

One: reveal self proudly as a servant of God and Heaven, confront the ghastly demon who was messing with Her creations, and heroically smite him to Kingdom Come (or die a hero's death trying, which was rather likely, considering he currently had all the Holy Energy of a depleted 9-volt-battery, had such a thing been invented yet);

Or, two: enter into a vile deception, denying Her Love, and debase self by pretending to be but a lowly creature of Hell in order to save own selfish hide; shame, shame upon his head.

Raphael thought about it long and hard.

Closed his eyes, which had probably been shimmering in the darkness like fat gold coins, collector's pieces and polished to a radiant sheen.

And opened them again, acidic-bright and yellow like chemical waste, with pupils like dark wounds slashed through their middle.

"I actually do freelance, mossstly." He responded with forced casualty, making sure to hiss his S's.

"Oh, I see, I see." Azirafell nodded attentively, and, this was the important part, did NOT gear up to rip Raphael's Grace from his chest. "That does sound pleasant indeed. I gather you simply thwart any and all Angelic Plans you encounter, then?"

"Hnnyeah." Raphael croaked. "Flood. Birth. Frequent thwarter, me."

"Which explains why you weren't on Dagon's pay ledger,* I see. You get your infernal wages on a case-to-case basis, naturally."

*It had been quite the bother to break into her office and check said pay ledger, but finding the _one_ likeminded demon in all of Hell was a priceless commodity well worth a bit of creative heist-planning.

"Hmmm." Said Raphael.

"I shall personally suggest to the Prince to increase your compensations, then. I happen to think you very talented, dear boy, and if ever you consider signing up as a permanent fixture, I would be _honoured_ to offer you a positio-"

"Ngk. Yeah. Thanks." Raphael said quickly. "But don't think so. Like my, my freedom, me. Uh. Should go. Have, have dissent to foment, angels to piss off, wiles to… wile."

"Oh, naturally. I understand." Azirafell demurred. "I hope to see you aga-"

"Yeah, yeah, ciao." Raphael muttered, and then rushed out of the hut as if his wings were on fire.*

*His wings were perfectly fine. His pants, however, were quite noticeably (and metaphorically) ablaze, as was typical of such horrid liars like himself.

In his panic, he somehow managed to transport himself back to Heaven in the blink of an eye, and to change his appearance back into something presentable before his fellow angels began raising eyebrows at his dirty clothes and weirdly snake-like appearance.

* * *

  
  


Azirafell stood beneath the cross in the soft glow of the setting sun, head cocked slightly to one side and watching the blood drip down into the sand.

"What a mess." He murmured to himself.

And then, he turned on his heel and stalked through the crowd, up the hill, towards the miserable form curled up and grieving.

  
  
  


Raphael wept.

The other archangels had been with him before, when they had driven the nails into the poor man's wrists, spoken their empty blessings upon him, and buggered off at the first opportunity that presented itself.

None of them had shed even the vague idea of a tear.

Well.

Only reasonable.

They hadn't known him like Raphael had, watching over him from the earliest days of childhood, so impossibly proud of the wise young man who had spoken of all the things Heaven _should_ be.*

*And which Heaven _was_ , Raphael would sometimes add, if he felt like deluding himself.

It was, perhaps, a little blasphemous to claim to love God's son like one's own, but Raphael frankly couldn't be arsed to care.

"My condolences." Hummed a voice by his shoulder. "For your loss."

Raphael did not respond, only buried his face deeper in his forearms.

The figure settled beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.*

*Raphael meant to shrug it off. He really did, it was hot like a brand, like Hellfire and burning sulphur, and surely that could only be harmful to an archangelic disposition.

(But he felt cold, _so cold_ , ice deep in his gut since he had begged Gabriel to at least be allowed to ease the poor boy's suffering, and being admonished for even making the suggestion.

He would allow the touch for a moment longer.)

"I remember how I was, when Eve…" a soft sigh. "I was despondent for centuries."

Raphael looked away, wiping his tears on the sleeves of his black mourning garb.

"S'not the same." He murmured.*

*Because it wasn't. Yes, he had guarded the boy on his path to Goodness, as Azirafell had led the girl to Sin, but it… it was still entirely un-alike!

"You needn't be ashamed of grieving for a human, my dear." Azirafell was smiling at him. _Why was he smiling, calling him dear? And so earnestly and near-kind, too. Almost as if he meant it._ "I am glad to find one who has it in their heart to love these silly creatures the way I do."

Raphael hadn't meant to, but that made him bark out a bitter laugh.

"Love?" He snorted. "Demons can't love!"

(Azirafell was mocking him, of course. Lying. Still attempting to recruit him, perhaps. He wasn't sad to see humans die, probably delighted in the craftsmanship of Jesus's torturously slow death.

Raphael was weary, so weary of pain and of death; and that was the only reason he didn't smite Azirafell right where he sat, for behaving such when Her son wasn't even fully dead, up there on the cross.)

"Hm." Azirafell blinked. "No. No, I suppose they can't usually, can they."*

*Had Raphael glanced to the side just then, he might've seen the entirely unique sight of a demon coming to terms with the realisation that he was a type of savant, incredibly adept at something no other of his kind was capable of; and how much that realisation scared him.

But Raphael didn't glance, and didn't see.

Maybe, he should've.

They sat in silence for a long while, until night had fallen and only the stars Raphael had crafted from nothingness so long ago were with them during their vigil.

"It occurs to me," Azirafell said softly, when the sky was brightening minimally in anticipation of the dawn, "that I do not even know your name."

Raphael would never quite know why he hadn't told the truth. He'd been tired, yes, weary, but not defenceless as when he'd first seen it necessary to lie, and the tactical advantage of having a Baron of Hell's trust never even occurred to him.

In that very moment, he'd only wanted to stay in this instance of quiet, with a soft, pudgy hand very gently pressing claws into his shoulder, side-by-side with an entity who was at the very least _pretending_ to share his grief.

"Crawly." Raphael said, as dawn broke and sunlight spilled over the world. "Name's Crawly."

* * *

  
  


Raphael watched with a sort of horrified fascination as Azirafell slurped down his seventh oyster with a pleased hum.

There was really no reason for him to be on earth this time, no reason at all,* and even less to have agreed when Azirafell found him in a cheap Roman bar and suggested catching up over oysters.

*Except perhaps for a need to get away from the Heavenly Apparatus for just a little while, from Uriel's forms and Gabriel's thoughts on Team Building and Michael's gossiping by the Holy Watercooler, having any and all applications for a private meeting with God denied.

And yet, here he was.

With Azirafell.

Eating the kind of thing that probably ought to be prominently featured in a horror movie, if horror movies - or, indeed, _movies_ \- had been invented yet.

"Thought you were the Master of Torture, not Gluttony." He muttered, uneasily tapping a golden fingernail miracled yellow against a discarded shell, throwing a little glance over his shoulder. Wouldn't do to be seen fraternising with The Enemy, would it.

" _Eternal Torments._ " Azirafell corrected, a hint sharper than usual. "There's a distinction."

Raphael nearly laughed at that.

"Oh, of course, if there's a _distinction._ " He rolled his eyes. Damnable - no, Damned Already - butcher, splitting hairs about what you called it when ripping souls apart on the rack. It would almost be funny, if it weren't so wretched.

For a moment, Azirafell's face was strangely blank.

And then, it slipped into something more mildly-pestered-but-enjoying-it.

"Oh, hush!" He smirked goodnaturedly. "None of that cheek, Crawly."

He slurped another oyster.

"You know, you ought to consider changing it."

"What?" Raphael blinked, briefly distracted by the line of the demon's neck as he swallowed a little living thing whole.

"Your name, my dear." Azirafell smiled indulgently. "Crawly. It's a bit… well, it's not my place to say…"

"But you will say." Raphael pointed out shrewdly.

"Oh, obviously."

"Thought so."

"And you thought correctly. It's a bit… _squirming-at-your-feet-ish_ , no offence meant."

"None taken." Raphael replied smoothly. Wasn't his name, after all. "Is that even allowed Downstairs though? Changing names?"

Azirafell gave him an odd _shouldn't you know?_ kind of glance, but seemed to accept that Crawly, being a freelance agent, might not be up-to-date on all company policy.

"I would hope so, seeing as I changed mine." Azirafell threw him a glance that could not be read as anything but flirty, and made Raphael rather uncomfortable in the general area where one would manifest an Effort, were one to make one.*

*Which Raphael did not intend. In fact, he wasn't even thinking about Efforts, and what one could get up to with a pair of them. Not at all.

"...you did?" That had not been on the file.

"Naturally. Very early on, too. Being called merely _Fell_ , it seemed a bit… on the nose."

"Hng." Raphael was not contemplating Azirafell's nose, nor how it might be to nibble on it. Damn demons, always Tempting people into carnal lust left and right. "I'll consider it."

"A toast to that." Azirafell raised his wine goblet, and smiled.

His teeth were sharp and pointy, glinting dangerously in the candlelight.

Raphael, in spite of everything Heaven had ever taught him, smiled back.*

*It was a tactical move. Collecting intel. Getting cosy with the Enemy, only to vanquish him entirely.

Yes.

That was all it was.

God's own truth, and if God objected to him claiming that, then _maybe_ She should finally get back to him about certain recent policy decisions he happened to view quite critically, shouldn't She?

* * *

  
  


Raphael rode his elegant coal-black destrier* into the clearing… and immediately pulled the reins, urging the beast back the way they'd come.

*Personally, he couldn't _wait_ for cars being invented. Horses were terribly hard on the buttocks, and quite difficult to handle besides, especially in full armour.

"Hold! Who goes there?"

Too late. Too _bloody_ late.

"Azirafell, is that you?" Raphael said with a strained little thing that might've been a smile once, before it had come down with whatever it was that currently ailed it. "F-fancy seeing you around these parts."

"Oh, it's _you_." Azirafell lowered his (frankly impressive) sword. "Apologies, dear fellow. Your armour rather resembles that of the band of angels who attacked me not a fortnight past, you'll understand my confusion."

"Hah. Coincidence. Funny." Raphael - inelegantly - slid off his horse, taking care to subtly alter his crest per miracle, so that it no longer resembled that of a small flock of archangels on the warpath. "Happens often, that kind of thing, does it?"

"Heavenly attacks? Oh, indeed." Azirafell returned to the small fire and the rabbit he was roasting, gesturing for Raphael to take a seat beside him. "I suppose it is because I am the only demon of rank who regularly visits earth, they see an opportunity and take it."

A concerned frown that would've looked convincingly genuine, if Raphael didn't know better. "They don't give _you_ any bother, do they?"

"Me? No, no, no, no." Raphael said quickly. "Fine, me. Going around and… fomenting. Yes. Fomenting dissent and discord. Undisturbed. Not meeting any angels, or fighting demons on King Arthur's behest, and also not doing healing miracles, nope."

"Commendable." Azirafell praised absentmindedly, poking the rabbit. "It was quite strange though, this attack. One of the angelic knights might've struck me down - it was four against one, in defence of my fighting prowess - but they stayed their hand. Isn't that peculiar?"

"Hng." Raphael agreed guiltily.*

*Not because he regretted joining the attack. Oh no. It was the right thing to do, battling vile demons, whether they called you "dear boy" or not, no reason to trouble one's conscience over that.

It only irked him that, for some _ineffable_ reason, he'd failed to follow through in the heat of the moment. Plain embarrassing, that, and even worse the encouraging shoulder pat from Gabriel after, and his assurance that "it happened to all angels", and that "there was no shame in it".

"So, Crawly, would you like…" Azirafell paused halfway in slicing off a bit of rabbit. "It _is_ still Crawly, isn't it?"

Raphael blinked.

Recalled their last conversation.

Azirafell was still looking at him expectantly.

"Oh. Oh no. I've. Uh. Changed it."

"Ah, wonderful!" Azirafell smiled broadly, showing all his pointiest teeth. "What to? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus? I can see you as an Asmodeus."

...that was a bit. Well. Very demonic. Raphael winced at the thought of being called anything like _Asmodeus_.

"Cr…..rrrrowleyyyyy." Raphael finally suggested, wonderfully innovative and creative, and not at all because he'd spotted a crow on a nearby tree branch.* "Yeah. Crowley. Me. I am."

*"Crawly" had come from a scorpion crawling along the sand of Golgotha, this was merely continuing a successful tradition.

" _Crowley_." Azirafell purred, rolling the name around in his mouth.

Raphael felt rather hot all of a sudden. Heat stroke, from the armour and the proximity to fire, never mind that it was an English autumn with all the temperatures that implied.

"You know, dear boy, I quite like it." He finally declared. "Now. Some rabbit, Crowley?"

"Hm." Raphael nodded jerkily, and took the offered meat.

It only occurred to him much later that this, once more, might've been a prime opportunity to smite one of the vilest of Hell's Barons out of existence.

However, it didn't seem quite cricket, attacking after being invited to rabbit and all.

Besides, Azirafell was…

Well.

When he wasn't doing terrible, terrible things, he was quite nice, really.

* * *

  
  


Azirafell had arrived in Spain less than 24 hours ago, and the majority of those had been spent getting tremendously, excessively, and roaringly drunk.

He'd had some rather good wine in the beginning, had then moved on to hard liquors, and when the increasingly more frazzled and delighted - he was getting very, very rich off this stranger, after all - inkeep had run out of those, he'd started on the ale.

It wasn't very good ale, Azirafell didn't think, but his tastebuds were a few dozen blood alcohol levels past being able to tell, so he chugged tankard after tankard down and got more intoxicated than any entity ever before.*

*Excepting, perhaps, the Apostles, in that short time frame between finding out their leader could turn water into wine, and the archangel Raphael descending from Heaven with the Eleventh Commandment ("Thou Shalt Not Get Pissed On Miracle Booze"), which effectively put a stop to the revelries.

He was only just contemplating which of the two identical tankards in front of him to aim for, when a figure slid into the chair opposite him.

"Azirafell." Said a familiar voice.

He squinted. The world had gotten rather blurry sometime around the brandy-like shots that had smelled very faintly of woodsmoke.

"...Crowley?" Azirafell couldn't quite help his grin as the wobbly shape in front of him slowly crystallized into sharp cheekbones and lovely blood-red hair. "M-muh dear boy! Fantshy seein' y'here!"

Crowley didn't appear to be smiling back. In fact, his lovely yellow - golden? - eyes were as hard and sharp as… a very hard and sharp thing whose exact name was escaping Azirafell at the moment. It was probably a smashing metaphor though. Great literary merit. Yes.

But Azirafell couldn't quite help it, he was _happy._ He only encountered Crowley so rarely, and this was, in fact, the first time the other had sought him out, rather than Azirafell taking great pains to locate him.

"Having cause to celebrate?" Crowley asked, and it was strange, how cold he sounded. Azirafell shivered, babbling out what he hoped was a reasonable answer, realised all it contained was assorted vowels, and finally settled on a shrug.

"I see."

"Sssshhhomething 'rong?" Azirafell tried, reaching for the tankard and missing.

"Not for much longer." Crowley said, watching him flail with an unreadable expression. All rather undignified, but the mortification of that was for sober Azirafell to deal with.*

*As was the hangover, and the alcohol poisoning. Sober Azirafell rather thought drunk Azirafell was a tremendous prick and better be ashamed of himself, but drunk Azirafell was not the type to care.

"Here." Crowley took hold of the tankard, and between one bleary blink and the next, Azirafell thought he'd seen him make a strange gesture over it before pushing it into his waiting alcohol-shaky hands.

"Thanksh." Azirafell tried to flutter his eyelashes at him, but only succeeded in losing balance ever so slightly.

"I'd like to propose a toast." Crowley suggested, that strange, hard look still in his eyes. "Since its the last time we will ever see each other."

"S'what?" Azirafell frowned. "Y'goin' away?"

"No." Crowley grinned, wide and mirthless.

He raised a small cup of wine, clearly the last dregs from the barrel Azirafell had drained earlier.

"To Torquemada," Crowley said, that cold, cold smile on his lips. "And the whole bloody inquisition."

"Torquemada!" Azirafell exclaimed - _somehow,_ he would've thought himself far past polysyllabic words - and slammed the tankard down without having drunk a single drop.

The ale splashed around, but none dropped over the rim, Crowley staring at it with a strange, tense fixation.

"To, to HELL wif _bloody_ Torquemada!" He continued, all the fury and pain that had driven him to drink bubbling up within him. "Did'you even _see_ wha' he's doin'? S'a _travesty!_ When he's dead, I'm, m'going to, to, you know what I'll do."

Crowley frowned. "What?"

"He'sa WORSHT person I've ever, ever known!" Azirafell slammed his tankard-free fist on the table, rattling the empty bottles at the far end. "S'wrong, Crowley, _wrong_."

"I." Crowley, at last, seemed more confused than cold. "I thought… you're behind him torturing people. Aren't you?"

"NO!!!" Azirafell shouted, and all heads in the inn turned, except Crowley's, whose eyes were still following the path of Azirafell's tankard as he waved it through the air. "Told you, s'Eternal Torment! No' torture, no' for informashion or changin' faith, and NO' innocents! _S'PUNISHMENT_ , s'what I do down there!"

He shouldn't, oh, he shouldn't. Sober Azirafell would be furious with him for divulging so much... but sober Azirafell wasn't here right now, was he.

"Bad people, they, they _need_ ta be _punished_ , s'why they're sent t'Hell. So I punish 'em, as much _an' as little_ as they deserve. M'no butcher, an' I hate t'inquisition. S'making me bloody _sick._ "

He sniffled a little. Azirafell was not usually a maudlin drunk, but then again, he'd never been quite _this_ drunk, either.

"N-never hurt anyone who dinn't deserve it." He said solemnly, because he _needed_ Crowley to know, to understand, because if he didn't, they could not continue to be friends. Simply couldn't.

" _Never_." Crowley echoed, evidently stunned.

"Hmm." Azirafell nodded. "Wish I could, could stop it. But s'the humans, no' Heaven, can't do a thing."

" _You wish._ " Crowley repeated, still looking as if someone had slapped him in the face with a wet haddock. " _You're not responsible. You're disgusted by this_."

"Blessed well am." Azirafell chuckled. He needed another drink, now that he'd gone a full rant without one.

"To Torquemada." He smiled wryly, raising his tankard. "An' him an' all t'bloody inquisition gettin' t'punishment they deserve."

And then he brought it to his lips.

Something strange happened to Crowley then, very strange.

His eyes widened, realisation and regret and panic flashing through them, and in one great lunge, he slapped the tankard out of Azirafell's hand, sending it crashing to the floor without even a drop landing anywhere on his person, much less in his mouth.

They stared at each other, Crowley's soft panting the only sound in the silence.

"...why'd you do tha'?" Azirafell muttered, confused. Crowley was looking at him as if he'd seen a ghost, pale and trembling like a leaf, hand still hanging in the air.

"Ngk." Crowley's eyes finally slid away, starting a frantic dance around the room. "Muscle spasm. Sorry."

He snapped his fingers, spillage and tankard gone.*

*Any humans who had borne witness decided unanimously to go back to their ales and never speak of this, except to their grandchildren who wanted to hear about strange drunk magicians yelling lovingly at each other.

"I'll. Hng. Go and get you another. Sorry." Crowley babbled on, scrambling up and making for the bar.

Azirafell watched him go, still feeling confused and just a hint forlorn.

Then he leant far, far over the table, and picked something from the chair Crowley had vacated.

A broken little ampoule, glass too clear for anything humans could accomplish in this day and age, and with only a hint of Holy Liquid Residue about it, just enough to prickle uncomfortably on Azirafell's skin.

He glanced over at where his tankard had fallen, the pristine floorboards with a palpable aura of Blessing liberally coating them.*

*For years to come, any bar brawl would come to a stop immediately if it got any close to this particular bit of floor.

How strange. How very strange.

Azirafell frowned.

And yawned.

And then, drunken sleep pulled him under, slumping over the table in a rather undignified manner, glass shards tinkling to the ground as his hand slackened.

If there had been something, _anything_ important he might've wished to realise, to remember, it was gone the moment his head hit the sturdy wood.

(And later, gentle, impossibly strong arms carrying him to bed, and a beloved voice murmuring _I've misjudged you, I'm sorry Azirafell, so sorry, God help me;_ but that memory, too, drowned in a deep, unfathomable pool in the back of his mind, and Azirafell would never remember it again.)

* * *

  
  


Things changed after that bar in Spain, as they inevitably had to.

One did not find out one had had the entirely wrong idea of someone's character - and saved them from one's own assassination attempt - without revising oneself and one's conduct just a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, the Spanish Inquisition bar scene was one of my favourites to write, so thank you Nemo for including the idea in your prompt!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed, and happy second advent!


	3. Towards The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the world is getting close to ending, and Azirafell is committed to do something about it... with or without Raphael's help.
> 
> Enjoy! ^-^

"I've been thinking." Said Azirafell, tossing a few crumbs to the ducks.

"Never would've known." Raphael smirked, hands clasped over his cane.

It was a lovely day, and St. James's Park full of joyful humans radiating a steady aura of love. Could make an archangel go practically mushy, it could.

"Hush. I only mean…" Claws discreetly miracled to appear like normal - if a bit long - fingernails fidgeted uneasily within soft gloves. "We've been doing quite well, Crowley, have we not? The Arrangement* has proved very satisfactory to the both of us."

*The Arrangement was something that had formed between him and Raphael quite soon after the bar in Spain, and it was capitalised not so much for its significance but more because of how very, very dangerous it could prove for the both of them.

(Of course, Azirafell assumed he was Arranging himself with  _ Crowley _ , and the danger was coming from Hell's side exclusively... but what else was new.

People - and demons - reliably fail to see things they have no wish to ever see, it's a simple as that.)

"Hnnyeah." Raphael agreed warily.

"We've been meeting regularly, saving humans*..."

*Not from Heaven or Hell's machinations, they managed that quite well separately, though Azirafell obviously wasn't aware of who  _ exactly _ was thwarting the wiles of the Evil One.

No, they saved humans from themselves, as much as they could, and helped them save each other, which was obviously the single most stupidly dangerous thing a demon and an archangel could get up to together.**

**Well. Raphael's mind had some different suggestions, some days, but he took care to ignore them. Azirafell and him were partners in crime, and the silly demon probably couldn't help the pheromones. Wouldn't do to get all worked up over a purely physical reaction such as this, and a bit of goodnatured flirt-teasing of a fellow demon, they weren't… fraternising, or whatever you wished to call it.

Yes.

Raphael had plenty of other people to  _ fraternise _ with, thank you very much.

"Not so loud!" Raphael hissed.

"...and, on occasion, each other."

"You mean,  _ I _ save  _ you _ ." Raphael corrected, because no matter how terribly clandestine he had to be about this little side project of his, there were simply some things one couldn't let stand. "The Reign of Terror? That time they nearly burnt you at the stake? And when-"

He quickly cut himself off. The last occasion he'd had in mind had been when Heaven had decided another attempt to smite the Master of Torment out of existence was just about due, and Raphael had  _ somehow  _ managed to walk a very thin line between effectively sabotaging any and all efforts, and pretending to be invested enough in their success to not rouse suspicions, as well as keeping Azirafell himself in the dark about it all.

That had been a very stressful decade for him, to say the least.

"Ah, but you forget, dear boy." Azirafell gave him the kind of sideways glance Raphael really wished he would stop with, it was sending all the wrong signals. "The Thirty Year's War. I still wonder what you were up to before that left you so terribly exhausted and defenceless in the face of passing murderous knights."

"Hng," said Raphael, rather than the  _ oh, was just healing a villageful of the pox, nothing big _ that would've been the truthful answer.

"My point being, it's been…  _ good _ , what we have. And, you see, my dear…" The playful teasing was gone from his face in an instant, replaced by genuine worry. "I'm a Baron, you know. On occasion, they let me… take a look at the Plans."

"Which plans?" Raphael blinked, having failed to hear the capitalisation.

"Great ones."

"Ah." Raphael swallowed. "Those Plans."

"Yes."

"...what about them?"

"Well." Azirafell threw the last chunk of bread to a white and grey pair of swans which had been engaged in a strange little dance that could only be courting. "They're coming to an end, for a start."

"Oh." Dread pooled in the pit of Raphael's belly. He'd quite forgotten about that.

"It's less than 200 years now, and no matter who wins, this, all this…"

He made a grand gesture, encompassing the park and the people and maybe a little bit the two of them, too.

"...will be gone. Destroyed. Collateral damage. I can't bear the thought, Crowley, I  _ can't _ ."

"I don't think I understand what you're suggesting."  _ Or at least I hope I don't. _

"We could do it, you and I. Prevent it." Azirafell turned, sharp perfection in the clothing of the era, something in his eyes that was very nearly pleading. "Crowley, my dear, there doesn't  _ have _ to be a War."

"What." Said Raphael, with curiously little emphasis.

"We could… we could  _ talk _ to the angels. Negotiate. Maybe even with God Herself, and I'm  _ sure _ some sort of-"

"No." Said Raphael, in the same empty tone as before. "It's Ineffable. We comply. Her Plan is the Only Plan. We comply."

His hands were shaking, trembling, and a cold pit had opened deep, deep in his chest.

Raphael felt light all over, not quite there, and his thoughts marched in lockstep through his brain.  _ In-eff-a-ble, In-eff-a-ble, com-ply, com-ply. _

"Crowley?" Azirafell reached for him, and Raphael flinched back, out of deeply ingrained instinct. "Are you quite-"

"That is  _ madness. _ " Raphael snarled, except it didn't quite sound like his voice. "All we do, we do in accordance with Her Plan. It is  _ Ineffable _ , we can't, I won't, I-"

Raphael swallowed, all his limbs a size too small in his skin.

"Forget all about it, right this instant. Or… or I'll never talk to you again."

Now it was Azirafell's turn to flinch; but demons were not very prone to turning the other cheek when attacked.

"Oh  _ really!" _ He snapped. "That's that then, is it? One thought that does not  _ comply _ with your silly ideas, and I'm yesteryear's news!?"

No longer disguised claws ripped through his gloves, little horns emerging from the line of his sideburns. "How long have we been friends, Crowley?  _ 6000 years!" _ *

*Azirafell, sentimental as he was, counted their first hearing of each other through darling Eve, of course.

"Friends?" Raphael barked a laugh.

(Some horrified part deep inside begged him to stop, to apologise, to think this through and have an amicable discussion, but the Angelic Choirs sang in Raphael's head, and, for an archangel, he had spent more than enough time grovelling before a demon.)

"We're not  _ friends! _ We are an arch-" He only barely managed to swallow the word down, regain control of his wayward tongue. "-two demons who  _ just so happen _ to share common goals, and, and nothing whatsoever else!"

"...I see."

Azirafell didn't sound angry at all, strangely. It was a tone Raphael had heard before, from mothers and fathers and spouses and children who had prayed for him, only to have him tell them there was nothing to be done.

Immeasurable loss, tempered only slightly by the fact that some quiet, resigned part had always known and been expecting to hear this.

"That is... quite alright." He nodded. "I do believe I can prevent the War by myself."

" _ Do. _ " Raphael hissed, whirled around, and dramatically stalked off. "I certainly shan't be missing you!"

"Well, the feeling is mutual!" Azirafell called after him, not quite managing to sound at all incensed.

"Obviously." He added on, tossing the last of the bread to the ducks with the single most forlorn look in his eyes.

_ "...obviously." _

* * *

Raphael took off his hat in the silence of the church, dusting flecks of dust off the coal-black brim.*

*He enjoyed dressing in dark colours down here, still and always. Even now that he and Azirafell had… parted ways… and there was no tactical merit to it anymore, Raphael enjoyed wearing something that was a far cry from pristine angelic robes.

It made him feel more  _ real _ .

"Mr Crowley." Harmony and Glozier were already standing at the altar, and a shudder went through him at hearing the name in a voice that wasn't sly and gently purring. He really should've chosen another alias. "At last."

"Gentlemen." Raphael inclined his head slightly. "A pleasure."

"You have them?"

"Naturally." He shook his bag slightly, contents rattling against each other. "Holy relics the likes of which you've never seen before, and never will again. All perfectly genuine, of course."*

*And they really were, among them such items as the jawbone Cain murdered his brother with, a stone from the Tower of Babel, and one of the spikes that had nailed Jesus to the cross.

They were morbid, tragic little reminders, obtained by him and Azirafell in the mid-16th century simply because both sides couldn't bear the thought of the other having it, and it had seemed much  _ neater _ to build a shared collection to show off to both sets of superiors, rather than steal items forth and back every few decades.

"Excellent." Glozier smiled thinly, reaching into his pocket. "Such a pity, then, that you must-"

"CROWLEY!" Came a shout from the entrance, and oh yes,  _ much _ better, if a bit loud. "Satan's Sake, what ARE you doing!?"

Raphael didn't turn.

" _ Business _ , Azirafell." He hissed. "Kindly shove off, will you?"

"Oh, is that what you do now?" Azirafell sidled up to him, prim as ever. He'd barely changed in the years they'd been apart, and something in Raphael's chest ached terribly.* "Providing Nazis with the ingredients for ghastly spells and rituals?"

*Angels did not make a habit out of keeping hearts in their corporations' chests. Too much bother, keeping it beating.

Raphael, however, had, at some point in those lonely past 80 years, realised that the upkeep was infinitely preferable to always feeling a strange emptiness there, and was now the only angel in all of existence with a heart.

Probably symbolic, that.

"How do you know that's what they need these for?" Raphael shot back.  _ He _ certainly hadn't. "Agents of yours, are they?"

(Harmony opened his mouth to say something, but a casual flick of Azirafell's wrist forced his jaw back shut.)

"Oh,  _ really _ , dear fellow, you know me better than that!" Azirafell scoffed. "I  _ know _ because I sold them the forged spellbook whose useless recipes they now intend to follow!"

(Glozier got as far as sputtering  _ "USELE-" _ before his mouth, too, was pointedly shut.)

"As if I would take half-witted Nazi spies in my employ, or, indeed, aid them in any way!" Azirafell rolled his eyes in that very own way of his that made him appear remarkably like a homosexual human male. "I am  _ playing them for suckers, _ naturally. Unlike  _ you _ , it would appear."

"Am so!" Raphael might've crossed his arms if he wasn't still holding the bag with the relics. "Me and Captain Montgomery are here to set them up!"

He pointed at the figure behind a nearby pillar. "Tell him, Rose."

"Um." Rose Montgomery blinked, and was promptly cut off.

"Crowley. My dear, silly boy." Azirafell pinched the bridge of his nose. "That young lady's name is Fräulein Greta Kleinschmidt. She's a double agent."

"No she's not!" Raphael shook his head resolutely. "British, through and through! Everything she does is for König and Country, as she always says. And, in a minute, she and her fellow agents, Heinz, Helmut and Hilde, are going to jump out and… and…"

Raphael mulled that over for a moment.

"...she  _ is _ a double agent, isn't she?"

"Afraid so, dear boy."

Raphael uttered the kind of word other angels would blanch at hearing.

"Indeed." Azirafell tugged primly at his lapels.

"Now, since we've established that, might we depart? This is, in fact, rather painful." He pointed down to his shoes, from the soles of which a faint sizzling sound and a thin stream of smoke was emitting. "Incidentally, you  _ must  _ tell me which manner of curse you placed on your own footwear, dear."

"Hnngh." Raphael evaded skilfully. "Why're you're here, anyway?

"It appears breaking a century-long habit of rescuing one another from embarrassment and unnecessary paperwork is quite a bit harder to achieve than one would expect." Azirafell gallantly offered his arm with a smile that was only slightly pained. "Shall we?"

Raphael blinked down at him, and softened.*

*They  _ had _ been friends, of course, a hundred years ago, and still were now. Raphael could scarcely recall what in Heaven and Hell had possessed him to ever claim otherwise.

"Yeah." Raphael smiled, and slid his hand into the crook of the demon's elbow. "Let's-"

"I'm afraid not, gentlemen." Three gun safeties clicked in unison. "Regrettably, you must now both be eliminated."

Greta Kleinschmidt aimed the barrel of her pistol at Raphael, the other two pointed theirs at Azirafell, together with impressive scowls that must surely pull uncomfortably at their miracled-shut mouths.

"And I'll have this." She wrenched the bag from Raphael's grasp.

"That's not very sporting." Azirafell pointed out mildly, though Raphael could feel his arm tensing under his fingers. "Luckily for you, I myself believe in giving a fair chance at survival, anything else simply isn't cricket."

He trained his most demonic smile on the three Nazis, and there was the tiniest of sensations in Raphael's chest, like an old, near-dead seed breaking open and releasing a tiny tendril of life.

"In less than… oh, a minute, I should think, a bomb will be dropped upon this very church. No, Mr Glozier, not the East End. Here, I guarantee it. So I suggest we all forget about this silly standoff business and  _ run _ . As fast as we possibly can, since remaining intact through that kind of explosion requires the kind of  _ real _ miracle neither me nor my friend here is capable of."

"Ngk." Raphael said.

"You truly expect us to believe that?" Greta asked disbelievingly.

"40 seconds." Azirafell retorted, glancing down at his pocket watch. "Really, run. Crowley and I will merely have to slog through some paperwork if we do happen to not make it out, you three… well. I can guarantee you will  _ not _ enjoy what I've prepared for your ilk. 30 seconds."

"You're bluffing." Greta's hands were not shaking - she was the sort of ruthless professional who'd had such things trained out of her - but her voice trembled just the tiniest bit.

Azirafell raised one eyebrow.

"Are you willing to bet the last 20 seconds of your life on it?" He purred.

(That tiny little sprout in Raphael's ribcage stretched and grew a bud or two.)

Uncertain looks between the Nazis. Guns being lowered, hesitant steps taken backwards...

And then, suddenly, a high, piercing whistle, ever closer and louder and shriller, and much,  _ much _ too soon.

" _ Humans. _ " Azirafell muttered crossly. "Absolutely no sense of punctuality!"

He turned on the spot, took a single step, as if there was any point in still attempting to flee.

A bullet whizzed past them, barely heard over the bomb's whistle, now so loud it drowned all else; and Azirafell stopped, glanced back over his shoulder.

Met Raphael's eyes.

Shrugged helplessly, a resigned smile twitching at the very corners of his mouth, and this, that little smile, was what did it.

_ I should like to kiss him now, _ thought Raphael.

And then, immediately following,  _ oh _ .

The strange growth in Raphael's heart burst into bloom, and he finally understood.

He was in  _ lov- _

And then, the world ripped apart, and all was fire and explosions.

  
  
  
  


The smoke cleared…

And amidst the rubble stood Azirafell and Raphael, perfectly unharmed.

"Oh. How strange." Azirafell blinked. "It would appear I rather underestimated your powers, doesn't it?"

"Ngk." Said Raphael, trying to change the subject to something that  _ wasn't _ either his mysteriously Heavenly-ish powers, nor how startlingly in love he, an archangel, was with a Baron of Hell. Apparently.* "Uh… shame about the relics, huh?"

*He'd known, peripherally, about the friendship, and the lust -  _ oh Mother, the lust _ \- even if he never acknowledged it.

But love?

That was new, and it scared Raphael to no end.

"Nonsense." Azirafell shot him a fondly exasperated look and snapped his fingers.

The bag appeared in his hand, with nary a speck of dust on it.

"A little demonic miracle of my own." Azirafell handed it over, their fingers brushing  _ just so _ . "Shall we take them back to storage then?"

"Ngah," said Raphael.

"Quite." Azirafell agreed fondly, and arm in arm, they left the ruined church behind.

  
  


* * *

_ The Esteemed Reader may, at this point, be wondering whether Azirafell returns these tender sentiments. Whether he is capable of it at all. _

_ We suggest they look at the man(...-shaped being), and see the answer there, plain as day. _

_ It's not as if Azirafell ever made much of a secret of it. _

* * *

  
  


Raphael watched through the driver side window of the Aston* as Azirafell stepped out of the seedy café, neon light draping itself over him like fine silk, looking perfectly at home among the cesspool of deprivation and decadence that was Soho.

*The 1950s Aston Martin convertible was, perhaps, the only thing Raphael could possibly imagine growing to love nearly as much as he loved Azirafell, and even then it was still quite a ways to go.

He rolled the window down.

"Azirafell!" He called out. "Over here!"

"Crowley!" The genuine smile crowding out the usual sly smirk was nothing short of sinful, it really was. "How are you, my dear-"

"We need to talk." He pushed open the passenger seat door. "Please?"

"...of course." Azirafell ducked into the car, a slight frown now maring his face. Raphael rather wanted the smile back. "What is it? Do our superiors-"

"You're actually going through with it." Raphael's hands were tight around the steering wheel. "No matter how dangerous it is. How Heaven and Hell would destroy you in an instant if they knew. You're going through with it."

"I am." Azirafell tugged at his ascot, avoiding to as much as look at him.

(That was quite alright, so was Raphael.)

"So please, dear boy, there's no need to rehash old arguments. You told me what you think, over a hundred years ago. Let's... not, not again."

"I haven't changed my mind." Raphael forced one of his white-knuckled hands to let go and slide into his pocket. "But I can't let you do this alone, defenceless. Here."

He held out his hand.

"For insurance."

A few ampoules, liquid contents glittering ominously in the neon lights, changed hands.*

*A memory stirred in the very back of Azirafell's mind, of an inn in Spain and spilled ale, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Don't. Don't go breaking them on accident." Raphael gritted out.

"Oh." Azirafell gently touched the glass, feeling the uncomfortable half-pain of Holiness tease his nerve ends. "How in  _ Hell _ did you…"

"Ngk. Connections. Human connections. Not angels. Course not."

"Naturally. And you… after everything you said?"

"I…" Raphael swallowed. "I don't think I want it all to end, either. And… I meant it. Can't have you doing it alone. So, whatever you'll be planning in future, tell me."

He reached out, closing Azirafell's clawed fingers gently over the Holy Water ampoules.

"I'll give you a hand, anything you want to do."

"...my dear." Azirafell said, in the kind of choked voice that might indicate a closeness to tears in a non-demonic being.

"You are too good to me, Crowley."

And those words shattered something deep inside Raphael.

Because, God help him, he  _ was _ too good.

And if Azirafell ever,  _ ever _ found out… there would be no more smiles, no more fond glances, no teasing batting of lashes, and no tentative camaraderie.

Raphael couldn't bear the thought of being Enemies with this demon. He  _ couldn't _ .

"I don't suppose you could give me a lift back to the bookshop?" Azirafell asked, looking up through his lashes in the most peculiar way, and Raphael was suddenly terrified.*

*Not of what he was rather sure Azirafell was suggesting. He wanted  _ that _ so terribly it hurt.

"Hnnnngno. Sorry." He sputtered. "Going… other way. Mayfair. Flat."

"Isn't that the same-"

"Ciao!" Raphael blurted out, and quickly fled.

He got as far as two blocks over until he realised he'd just left Azirafell sitting in  _ Raphael's own car. _

He took solace in the fact that, among all the great many - and colourfully varied - mistakes he had made over the years when it came to their relationship, this was only one of the minor ones.

* * *

  
  


"Crowley, my dear? It's me." Azirafell shivered in the cold of the telephone cell, claws digging into the hard plastic of the receiver, the cries of the infant Antichrist still echoing in his head, so much like the first babe he'd once cradled in his arms, and yet not at all alike.

"It's all gone according to plan."

* * *

  
  


"Let  _ me _ , dear." Azirafell teasingly slapped Crowley's hands away. "You'll only rip it, and then where will we be?"

"Bold words for a demon who nearly scalped herself with bobby pins." Crowley argued, though he let go of the fabric. "And with claws. How do you plan to properly button that dress with  _ claws?" _

"Practice." Azirafell sniffed, and demonstrated. Flawlessly and with perfect ease, of course. "Now, tell it true, do I look like the sort of person one would trust with their child?"

(She couldn't help but warm a little as those lovely snake-ish eyes flitted up and down and up again, taking in the dress and the hair and the conservative-yet-somehow-striking makeup with something she would think was interest, if Crowley hadn't left countless propositions unacknowledged.

A demon could dream, couldn't one.)

"Oh, yeeeeaaaah." Crowley drawled, grinning in that manner Azirafell loved so well. "Regular Mrs Doubtfire, you are."

"Hush, you." Azirafell fussed with her ascot, draping it more appealingly over her quite ample bosom.* "I dress much better, for one."

*Raphael swallowed once, found it didn't do much, and swallowed again. Still no improvement. Perhaps he ought to look away.

Any…. minute……. now…………

"Ngk."

"And besides, what position are  _ you _ meant to fill?"

"Hnngardener."

"...really?" Azirafell turned, inspecting the messy ponytail, the tight shirt, and the shorts so form-fitting and well,  _ short _ , Hell gained at least thirty more sinners who fell prey to Lust simply by existing in the same hemisphere as them. "Not the pool boy?"

"Grkh."

(Azirafell noted that Crowley flushed rather fetchingly.)

"Oh, I always  _ was _ impressed by your dedication, dear fellow. Ordered to guard the Antichrist, and you plan to Tempt Mrs Dowling - perhaps even Mr Dowling, if you keep at it - in the bargain. I could  _ never. _ "

Crowley made another one of those darling sounds, and crammed an absolutely  _ horrid _ straw hat onto his head.*

*The overall effect had something of placing a single dollop of Marmite on top of the most delicious crêpe to ever see the light of day - clashing terribly, but not taking away much of the full package's general delectableness, were one to remove the offending addition.

"I respect the institution of monogamous marriage and committed relationships," Crowley said primly, and then appeared to regret that he had.

Which was only fair, Azirafell supposed. It wasn't a very demonic statement, was it, even as a joke.

(Which it definitely was. Azirafell was… quite sure of that. Mostly.)

"You know, my boy, you must be the most  _ delightful _ demon I know." One last glance in the mirror to assure the hair was still doing what was best for it and staying put. "Especially when you play at Holiness. Quite daring of you, and more  _ wicked _ than philistines such as Duke Hastur, or even the Prince, could ever dream of. I did always think you an artist when it comes to sin."

Considering he'd just been paid a lovely compliment, Crowley didn't appear very pleased by that.

Bit green about the gills, too.

"Ngk. Thanks." He stuttered out. "Let's… just go."

"Very well then." Azirafell closed her carpet bag, containing twenty books that were all banned in select countries and most of whose authors she had known personally, and picked up the half-empty* glass of sherry balancing precariously on a stack of books.

*The philosophical implications very much passed her by. A glass half containing alcoholic liquid was an invitation to have another drink, and nothing more.

Crowley, face still a vaguely unhealthy shade of grey, picked up the bottle.

"To the world, and its continued existence." He said, raising it up in the air slightly before taking a generous swallow.

"To the  _ world _ ." Azirafell echoed, taking a dainty sip. "And our continued enjoyment of all its many pleasures."

They drank, and took the Aston to the Dowling residence.

The End was steadily approaching, but Azirafell was confident that, as long as they were in it together, there was no way their plan could fail.

* * *

  
  


_ Memo to Head Office - Raphael, Archangel of Healing _

_ Am still supervising boy, who is absolutely real Antichrist and not decoy at all. _

_ No visible Hellish influences - in that note, Nanny Ezrael perfectly upstanding woman, if a bit prone to vice - and all proceeding according to Ineffable Plan. _

* * *

  
  


_ Memo to Lower Management - Baron Azirafell, Master of Eternal Torments _

_ Am still supervising boy, who is a shining example of his Father's Satanic Spirit. _

_ Strangely, still no Heavenly agent sighted in his vicinity. One would think they'd send at least an archangel to potentially influence him. _

_ Still, all is proceeding according to the Great Plan. _

_ P.S. young Crowley as always proving to be Hell's most valuable asset - suggest yet another raise, or offer of promotion. _

* * *

_ "They've realised Warlock's not His Son, Crowley." _ Azirafell's voice crackled through the phone.  _ "I'm afraid we'll have to move fast. How is Adam?" _

"Scared." Raphael uneasily glanced over his shoulder at the boy in the backseat, holding a little dog and ensconced in a group hug consisting of three other children.

Despite the unearthly glow in his eyes, he looked very young, and, indeed, very, very  _ frightened _ .

"I feel like a terrible godfather."

_ "Well, you  _ did  _ let Warlock have raw dough once." _

"He was asking nicely!"

_ "He was meant to pretend to be the Son of Satan, Crowley, we were not to encourage polite behaviour!" _

Raphael smiled, despite all his nervousness. "Where are you? I can come to you, wherever you are."

_ "Tadfield Airbase. We deposit him there, and while he speaks to Gabriel and the Prince - He knows what to say? Hasn't changed his mind, yes? All tickety-boo, then - there might be a chance yet for us to undo the Horsepersons' work." _

"Right. Be there soon."

Raphael ended the call, and pushed the gas pedal down a little further, accelerating the Aston just a hint more than its motor ought to be capable of.

In the distance, a trumpet sounded, calling once, twice.

Again, louder.

Some part of Raphael strained to obey, to beat his wings and follow Heaven's call to arms. Take his staff, and ram it into the nearest demon's chest, flay their wings, break their wicked souls, and, perhaps, start with Satan's wretched offspring in the backsea-

Raphael gritted his teeth.

Another call.

"What is it?" Adam whispered, the only other person in the car to hear - plus Dog, of course, who whined pitifully.

"Nothing that need concern us." Raphael told him, and turned his phone on silent for good measure, just in case Heaven would attempt to call upon him more directly.

He put a cassette in the blaupunkt, and the trumpets' insistent blaring was promptly drowned out by Mozart's "All You Need Is Love".

On the ride to Tadfield, they also listened to Händel's "Paperback Writer" and Puccini's "Yesterday", though the children unanimously agreed that none of them were as good as Bizet's "We All Live In A Yellow Submarine".

* * *

  
  


_ The Esteemed Reader may not be very surprised to hear that, given studious preparation and carefully avoiding the Heavenly and Hellish eye, preventing an Apocalypse is much easier than it sounds. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy third advent, in case you celebrate!  
> We're getting close to the end of this one, and the true drama is still about to come...  
> Do leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed!  
> <3


	4. During The Climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things get worse, then much, *much* better, and finally worse again.
> 
> Slight change of plans - the last chapter was getting quite long, so i split it in two parts, the second of which will be posted on Christmas Eve! (And the bonus art the day after.)  
> ...sorry for delaying the resolution a while longer...

"Oh,  _ fuck. _ " Azirafell said softly, and unceremoniously turned on his heel, grabbing Raphael's arm and dragging him behind a nearby corner.

Raphael briefly entertained the thought that said exclamation had been a suggestion, perhaps an invitation, but one look at Azirafell's anxious expression* taught him better.

*He had a habit of licking and biting his lips in distress, which was… very…. rather………

...what was this footnote about again?

"What?" Raphael tried to peer around him. "What's wrong? We did it, didn't we? It's over?"*

*Azirafell had somehow managed to get his hands on a computer witch - as well as her bumbling boyfriend who was allowed to hold the cables sometimes - and the damage the Horsepersons had wreaked on the airbase's equipment had been fixed in less than five minutes while Adam and his little friends dealt with the Horsepersons themselves.

"Far from it, I'm afraid." Azirafell held him back with one hand against his chest, positively gnawing on his lower lip by now.

"Crowley, my dear, cherished friend…" he began, eyes wide and fearful amidst a weak attempt at nonchalance, flitting continuously towards whatever was past the corner. "I would merely like you to know that… that I always thought most highly of-"

"Yes, yes, and you're the most demonic bastard in all of Hell." Raphael waved him off.* "Come on now, it can't be as bad as all…"

*Azirafell flushed brightly at the compliment, which was one of the not-nicest things you could tell a demon, other than straight-up rhapsodising about their many vile deeds or sullying a soul in their honour.

Raphael peered around the corner.

"Oh,  _ shit. _ " He muttered, and quickly pulled back.

"Precisely." Azirafell sighed.

Crowley took another peek.

Repeated the aforementioned exclamation, only now in a very rude dialect of ancient Enochian that made Azirafell blink briefly in confusion.

"I thought… only Gabriel and Beelzebub would..."

"So did I, my dear." Azirafell pinched his nose. "Evidently, when Adam told them no, the Prince reported zir failure to... a Lower Authority, and…"

"He took it personal."

"Oh yes."

"Very personal."

"Immensely so."

" _ Shi- _ "

"So you've said."

They both leaned around the corner to watch a bright red, hulking, and distinctly Satanic - literally - figure and a little boy shout profanities at each other, a handful of archangels and a few Princes of Hell watching them uneasily, while the world shook and trembled around them, deep cracks spreading through the asphalt.

"Well." Raphael let his head fall back against the wall with a quiet >clunk< sound. "Nice knowing you."

"Oh, hush, Crowley." Azirafell irritable swatted in his vague direction. "We can't give up now, can we?"

He tugged at his ascot, yet another one of those nervous ticks.

"Perhaps, if we go out, explain the situation…"

"Are you  _ mad!?" _ Raphael hissed. "Do you have an idea,  _ any _ idea, of what they'll do to us if they find out we-"

"I know!" Azirafell cut him off curtly. "Believe me, I  _ know. _ There's not a torment in Hell I'm not familiar with, Crowley, and we'll likely get the honour of experiencing every single one of them in exquisite detail. But… for Adam, for the children, for the world…"

A strangely wistful look.

"Don't you think it would be worth it?"

Raphael swallowed.

"Martyrdom doesn't become demons." He croaked. "And certainly not us."*

*As much as he was generally not a fan of being discorporated and/or tormented for all eternity, Raphael's reluctance actually stemmed primarily from the fact that there were archangels in attendance, who would most definitely greet him by name; and that would be his cover blown.

Let it be known that Raphael didn't fear death even half as much as the shocked-pained-disappointed-furious expression that would no doubt spread over Azirafell's face after such a revelation, and the declaration of hatred and disdain that was sure to follow.

Azirafell fretted, as frettily as no fretter had ever indulged in frettage before.

Behind them, a crack was sneaking up the wall, sulphur fumes billowing out in dense little clouds.

"But we must do  _ something, _ Crowley." He muttered, clearly trying very hard to keep himself from wringing his hands and scratching himself bloody with his claws, finally stuffing them into his pockets. "Or… or we might never have a chance to speak to one another again."

That was indeed a rather unbearable thought, Raphael realised.

Perhaps he might stop time, or something. Reshape the stars. Twist reality if need be, possibly go horribly overboard with it all, but it scarcely mattered if it came to protecting the world and the demon he lov-

"Oh, actually…" Azirafell pulled his hand from his pocket again, a little smirk spreading over his face. "Crowley my dear?"

"Ngk?" Raphael pulled himself out of a rather elaborate plan involving a minor quasar and one or two manipulated quantum events.

"Tell me…" Azirafell opened his hand, revealing a glittering ampoule filled to the brim with Holy Water. "How good is your throwing arm?"

Raphael blinked.

And then, he grinned.

  
  


* * *

  
  


A few hours later - spent mostly hugging their godson, taking a long bus ride, hugging their  _ other _ godson, and an even longer bus ride back home - the door to Raphael's apartment closed behind them.

"Well, didn't that go  _ splendidly!" _ Azirafell exclaimed happily, a little drunk on wine and a lot drunk on their success. "Darling Adam did so well, none of them even  _ suspected _ us, we actually  _ got away with it, _ and- oh, you with your perfect aim, taking Our Lord Satan's left horn right off - why, my knees nearly went out from under me!"

"...shuddup." Raphael flushed hotly. Azirafell had undone his ascot, and was so gorgeous when all aglow with delight. "Was just… helping you. S'all your idea, from start to finish."

"I'm a veritable cornucopia of brilliant ideas, that much is true." Azirafell hummed, shedding his jacket and undoing his vest. "I've had another, by the by."

"...did you?" Raphael asked belatedly, understandably distracted. There was  _ skin _ beginning to show.

"Oh yes." Shirt unbuttoned, now. Raphael was starting to think it a bit odd. It wasn't exactly tropical temperatures in his rather starkly empty flat, and Azirafell, half-lizard that he was, so loved his warmth and layers. "One I've harboured for a good long while, in fact, and which might as well be carried out tonight in celebration of our victory."

"And what-" Raphael began.

He didn't get much further than that.

Azirafell's hands came up, one to grasp Raphael's collar, the other to settle over his cheek, cradling it gently, and then…

Then they kissed, and it felt a little like the world was ending, after all.

"Oh." Raphael murmured against Azirafell's lips, the line of his fine white lashes so, so close, fluttering open to reveal eyes Raphael could scarcely believe he had once thought cold and cruel.

"Oh, my darling,  _ yes. _ " Sighed Azirafell, and pulled him closer, and Raphael went willingly, eagerly, he'd  _ dreamed  _ about this, him and Azirafell entwined and kissing and with matching rings on their hands, oh  _ God… _

...God.

Heaven.

His fellow angels.

Oh Go- Someone help him, what was he doing.

Raphael attempted a weak struggle that was barely a shiver, which didn't do much.

A kiss to his throat, and Raphael's eyes slid shut, what if he just, just  _ let… _

No, no, he couldn't.

Impossible.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, but only barely far enough to have Azirafell's hands still on him.

"What's this now, my sweet?" Azirafell purred, eyes dark with lust, and, perhaps, something very near lust - but really a lot more - which had never shone from a demon's eyes before.* "Whyever would you pull such a face?"

*Nor, in fact, from any angel's, save one. The Esteemed Reader can surely guess  _ which  _ one.

(The face in question was an expression more torn than a piece of string unexpectedly required to bear over a tonne of weight.)

"We both want it, do we not?"

One hand slid down Raphael's ribs, his waist...  _ lower _ .

"Hngk-ah!" Raphael squeak-panted in response, and made a weak attempt at pulling away.

"I see it in your eyes, have seen it for a while, the way you look at me." Azirafell continued conversationally, one hand coming up to toy with copper locks while the other was still occupied down below. "One ought to give in to one's desires eventually, shouldn't one? We've only just averted the Apocalypse, I wouldn't know any better time to start something new and…"

A twisting movement. Raphael keened.

"... _ exciting. _ "

Scraping together the last vestiges of his willpower (which was quickly disintegrating in favour of yespleaseMORE of what Azirafell was doing) Raphael forced out a feeble "w-we… Azira-oh! we, we  _ shouldn't _ ."

Azirafell's hand stilled immediately.*

*Notwithstanding his demonic self, Azirafell had  _ standards _ ; one of which being that any partner he took to bed would exhibit utmost willingness in full possession of their mental capacities. Consent had been one of his, and he cheerfully welcomed anyone who ignored lack of it with the finest Eternal Torture Hell could deliver.

"My dear boy," he began carefully, "if there's any reason for you to not want to do this, tell me and I'll consider the matter closed. But there's no  _ outside  _ reason we shouldn't, is there?"

There were a million reasons, and Raphael could list them all, had done so on many a sleepless night. The most obvious being…

"...w-what if our bosses…"

"Hell?" Azirafell frowned. "What does Lower Management care? We're just two demons, engaging in mutual pleasure. I've done it before,* there's nothing to it, Crowley."

*Azirafell had dabbled, of course, it lay in the nature of hedonistic demons to have a go at certain things.

However, he'd found eventually that there was only one (presumed) fellow demon who  _ truly _ excited him, and all dabbling was promptly discontinued.

_ Crowley. _ The name pierced through Raphael like a bolt of lightning. Crowley was a mask he put on, a figment of his imagination, a thin veneer of pretence around an archangel…

...but.

If he  _ weren't _ an archangel. If he truly were Crowley, the minor snake demon, whose eyes were slitted yellow and not pools of gold, who bowed to the King of Hell rather than Her…

Then they could. Maybe they even  _ should _ , depending on Hell's stance on lust.*

*Roughly "enthusiastic YES, and the more havoc it wreaks on their immortal soul the better!"

The love was another matter… but demons couldn't love, could they. Raphael had made his peace with that in regards to Azirafell long ago.  _ Crowley _ would be the same, lustful and undeniably fond, but not so... compromisingly devoted.

It would be so much easier if he  _ were _ Crowley. In every way.

  
  
  


Raphael made a decision. He leaned in…

...and Crowley kissed Azirafell, hungry and desperate, licking and biting and sighing as if some ache deep inside of him had finally found relief.

  
  
  


For just a moment, Azirafell was still.

And then he very near  _ growled, _ surging up against him, hands coming up to take Crowley, push him down onto the bed, and Crowley went willingly,  _ eagerly _ , letting Azirafell's soft weight press him into the sheets and nearly reaching his peak right then and there when the demon breathed  _ "there we go, my lovely boy, my sweet darling, let me please you" _ into his ear.

" _ Yes _ ," he breathed, and swallowed down words that weren't "I love you", couldn't be, because he was the demon Crowley and demons did not love.

And then, they made love-that-wasn't-love all through the night, and all the glory of the Heavens (which neither of them remembered, of course, Fallen as they were) couldn't compare.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Crowley woke in Azirafell's arms, head pillowed on the soft expanse of his chest, and couldn't remember a time when he'd been happier.

He yawned, stretched (taking care not to jostle Azirafell into wakefulness) and settled in to continue dozing in quiet bliss. They had an eternity together, after all, nowhere to be and little to do, and nobody-

A soft sound like the peal of silver bells rang through the air, and a whiff of ozone and citrus cleaner wafting over to them, reminding Crowley of… someplace he oughtn't know, oughtn't remember, which  _ had nothing to do with him. _

He swallowed.

Very, very gently pushed Azirafell's arm off him, slipping out of bed and snapping the dem- the  _ other demon's _ shirt onto his torso, where it hung too wide and too low and utterly perfect nonetheless.*

*He might tell himself it was to appear more decent, but really it just highlighted the bite marks where the collar slipped half down one shoulder, and the fingerprint marks on his thigh just below the hem.

Crowley's bare feet sounded too loud on the floor as he walked over to the desk, where, sure enough, a gilt-adorned envelope was addressed to  _ Raphael _ .

He reached out with shaking fingers, and pulled out the memo that wasn't… wasn't meant for…

_ The Archangel Raphael is to report immediately re: failure to comply with summons to Heavenly Host at date of Apocalypse. We expect his presence at Head Office forthwith, otherwise we will send an angel to collect him. _

It wasn't signed. Heaven never signed summons to disciplinary hearings.

Crowley glanced back at Azirafell, still resplendent and sleeping soundly among the rumpled sheets.

Glanced down at the card.

Scenarios ran through his head, most of them involving either a good smiting or the utter destruction of their relationship, one way or another.

Carefully, Crowley set it back down at the desk, and snapped his fingers once more, exchanging the ill-fitting (wonderful) shirt for his usual white button-down and tan trousers, and pulling his ruffled hair into some vague semblance of a proper hairstyle that  _ didn't _ make him look like he'd been extremely well-shagged.

He took his coat and scarf from their hooks, shrugged them on…

...and before he went, he padded quietly back to the bed, and placed a single soft kiss on Azirafell's cheek.

He vowed to himself it wasn't,  _ couldn't  _ be the last.

* * *

Crowley was carefully regulating his breathing, fidgeting and anxious in the Heavenly Elevator.

He didn't belong here, what was he doing, he ought to go back and throw himself into Azirafell's arms again, this was  _ madness… _

The doors dinged. Slid open.

Crowley took a deep breath…

...and Raphael stepped out of the Elevator, head held high with all the confidence of an archangel back in his domain.

They were already waiting for him, arranged behind an empty white desk.

"Michael! Dude!" Raphael beamed, sauntering over to them. "And Gabriel! Uriel, Sandalphon... nice to have the gang back together, eh?"

Stony faces and little in lieu of answer. Raphael winced inwardly.

"So. Guys." He clapped his hands together cheerfully, smile only a little bit sheepish. "About the Apocalypse. Silly thing really, meant to pick up the phone, but you know how it is, right?"

Their faces did not give the impression that they did.

"There were… things I had to do, to try, important things. There's a, a great explanation, for everything I did or didn't do, trust me!"

"We're gratified to hear it, Raphael." Michael smiled thinly.

"Oh, very!" Gabriel walked around the desk, clapping Raphael on the shoulder. "Always great to have an explanation, right?"

His hand suddenly tightened, vice-like, and he gestured for Uriel, who pulled something from her coat pocket, placing it on the desk.

"Especially for _ this kind of thing _ ."

Raphael might've staggered if not for the merciless hand at his shoulder, and he let out a weak whimper.

On the desk laid a single earth observation photograph, grayscale and taken with suboptimal lighting; but what could be seen was more than enough.

Raphael, naked and back arching, face screwed up in something that Divine Ecstasy surely didn't even come close to. He was nearly covered by another nude body, whose face was unrecognisable, buried as it was in the crook of Raphael's neck…

...but whose hand, perfectly visible in the foreground where it was pressing his slender wrist onto the mattress, was tellingly tipped with lizard claws.

"So." Gabriel smiled, and it didn't even come anywhere close to reaching his eyes. "Letting yourself get  _ fucked _ by a  _ demon… _ I suggest you make the explanation for that nothing short of absolutely  _ breathtakingly _ good, hm, sunshine?"

Raphael swallowed.

There was nothing, absolutely no way he could talk himself out of this, not with such unmistakably damning evidence right before their eyes.

Nothing could possibly excuse  _ this _ .

Except, perhaps…

Raphael twisted around as much as Gabriel's grip allowed, meeting his eyes directly.

"I  _ love _ him." He confessed quietly.

This was Heaven, and they were Her children. Surely, honest love would not be punished, and it couldn't possibly be a crime to use the heart She gifted him with to adore another. Surely…

Gabriel's face twisted into a grimace of disgust, and Raphael knew he had lost.

"Not nearly good enough." He sneered, and before Raphael could protest, wheedle, perhaps even beg, Sandalphon was behind him in a single beat of his wings, and his hand smote down hard between Raphael's shoulder blades, Holy Force flashing into his body.

Raphael screamed.

And screamed and screamed and screamed, until he could no longer remember a past or imagine a future where he was not, a time without pain an impossible and distant dream, and still he was wailing, writhing, trashing…

Finally,  _ finally, _ after a short eternity, his conscious took mercy on him, slipping away into the dark, and Raphael went with it gladly.

* * *

Azirafell blinked back into wakefulness slowly, sluggish as always in the mornings, and he longed to luxuriate in the sunbeam hitting the bed  _ just so _ only a moment longer.

He groped for Crowley, hoping to leech off some of his wonderful warmth…

...and only found pillows and blankets.

Hm. Azirafell pushed himself up, blinking uselessly into the middle distance.*

*Those glasses were  _ not  _ simply for show, evidently.

"Crowley?" He called out. "Darling?"

No answer.

He swiped his glasses from the nightstand,* and his shirt - which smelled oddly of Crowley - from the floor, pulling it on quickly.

*Last night had actually caused his spectacles to end up on top of the overhead lamp, but Azirafell firmly believed that no matter where you put them down, glasses always appeared on your nightstand in the morning - so that's what they'd inevitably do.

"My dear?"

How peculiar. He'd not expected… well, the hitting-and-running wasn't at all surprising, they were both demons, after all. You rarely brought another denizen of Hell breakfast in bed after a shag with no strings attached, but…

Crowley was such a peculiar demon, and part of Azirafell had-

Well.

Had thought this meant  _ more. _

Evidently, he'd been mistaken.

Azirafell swallowed the morsel of bitterness that thought brought with itself, and pulled on the rest of his clothes. It was quite proper for demons to conduct themselves this way, after all. The sort of fondness he himself harboured for Crowley was an outlier, unusual, and naturally entirely unrequited. He didn't know why he'd been deluding himself.*

*Except he did know why.

Crowley's eyes gone wide and reverential, shining with peculiar light, very nearly flickering gold in the dark, and his voice as he gasped "Azirafell", the way he'd only ever heard angels take the Almighty's name - for all that they were demons, it had felt nearly blasphemous to be worshipped so.

It didn't mean the termination of their friendship, naturally, nor even that they would not continue to have… mutually beneficial arrangements.

But it  _ was _ a boundary, a line Crowley had carefully and in the kindest way possible drawn in the sand between them; politely informing Azirafell how he wished to conduct their business when it stopped being about work, so to speak, and Azirafell would respect that.

So there would be no lazy mornings entwined around each other, nor,  _ Hell Forbid _ , murmured confessions of adoration. Only the fires of passion, and slipping back out into the night after the deed was done.

They would be adult demons about this, which… which was just as well, really. Azirafell's personal leanings were unseemly enough as is, no need to drag Crowley down with him.

Azirafell let out a last little sigh, tugged his frilly ascot back into alignment, and stepped right through the floor, down into Hell.

He was sure he could drown his maudlin mood in work. There was always something to be done down in the Pits - especially now that Satan was nursing a holy-degree burn and a rejection from His son, which perhaps stung even more.

  
  
  


He'd barely gotten started on his paperwork when the summons came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brutal cliffhanger is brutal. Not to worry, only two more days until the resolution!  
> (And at least they got to sort out their Feelings in this one!)  
> ^-^ <3


	5. Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which secrets are revealed under the literal worst circumstances - but it will all be well in the end. Promise.
> 
> The conclusion at last! And, for once, I've not answered the comments on the previous chapter beforehand... I'll get to that soon.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE that there is some bodily injury in this chapter, some violence, and some suggestions of torture, though nothing very graphic. A POV character is also temporarily restricted in movement and (also temporarily) miracled blind.  
> Be safe while reading!

"You wished to speak to me, my Lord?" Azirafell bowed low before Beelzebub's throne. "How can I be of service?"

The Prince seemed harried, zir flies buzzing and hands agitatedly running through insect-like cleaning movements.

"Where've you been!?" Ze snapped. "Don't anzzzwer, I don't care."

Azirafell imagined ze would care greatly if ze knew what exactly he'd been busy sabotaging the past few days, but he chose to magnanimously incline his head and hold his tongue.

"Thizzz Apocalypzzze hazzz been a dumpzzzter fire, and not the  _ fun _ kind." The Prince continued to grouse, wings twitching and flicking. "Our Lord Zzzatan is  _ furiouzzz. _ And now we juzzzt, juzzzt have to make nizzze with our  _ Enemiezzz _ , have an  _ armizzztizzze _ , it'zzz zzztupid!"*

*if the Esteemed Reader is wondering about zir current temper, they ought to know that ze had spent the night attempting to reach a tentative truce in negotiations with Gabriel, who'd kept swatting at zir flies and insisted to read all the fine print, which would surely put anyone in a sour mood.

"Very foolish indeed, Lord Beelzebub." Azirafell agreed amicably, picking at a dry spot on his claws.

"But it izzz azzz it izzz." Ze slumped in zir throne. "And I guezzz we can pull thizzz off. We're off to a good zzztart already, since the head wankwingzzz hazzz requezzzted our bezzzt torturer to dizzzipline one they feel izzz in need of it."

"Oh?" Azirafell raised one eyebrow.

"She'll give you the detailzzz."

Beelzebub snapped zir fingers, and the archangel Michael herself stepped from the shadows, strangely out of place among the mould of Hell in her pristine white blouse.

"Thizzz izzz the demon I told you about." Ze waved irritatedly. "Now get out of my zzzight, both of you."

"Baron Fell." Michael inclined her head, leading him down the corridor. "Your fame precedes you. Now, Heaven requires you to-"

"With all due respect, I care little for what Heaven demands." Azirafell interrupted, calm and collected as ever. "If this business relation is to go through, I must know  _ who _ you wish to see punished, and  _ why _ . Then, we will see about the particulars of your request."

Michael's expression soured, but not enough to assume she'd not expected something along these lines.

"An angel has conducted himself entirely unsuitable for his station." She said stiffly. "You need not know more."

Azirafell crossed his arms, refusing to take even another step. "His name."

Michael glared.

"...Raphael." She spat out. "His name is Raphael."

Azirafell blinked. "The archangel?"

" _ Yes, _ the archangel!" Michael snapped, looking very much like she'd swallowed one of the little slimy animals that crawled along the walls of Hell. "Is that all?"

An archangel. Heaven was clearly in worse disarray than Hell over the aborted Apocalypse, if the highest of their ranks had started turning on each other.

"What has he done then, the archangel Raphael?" Azirafell still wouldn't budge. "I must know, or you can dirty your own hands with this."

A muscle along Michael's jaw twitched.

"He fell in love." She said curtly.

"...love?" Azirafell startled. "Is that a punishable offence in Heaven now!? I would've thought your lot was all for-"

"We  _ are _ ." Michael interrupted sharply. "But not…"

"Not?" Azirafell probed.

" _Not_ _with a demon._ " She hissed, and then clamped her lips shut as if she deeply regretted having said it, and even more that it was true.

"Ah. I see." Azirafell very near smirked. What a scandal. "Love is encouraged, until such time when it is not. Very...  _ angelic _ of you."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "I've no intention of discussing morals with you, Baron. He and this demon likely conspired against the Great Plan, too, attacked Lucifer. They  _ must _ be punished."

Well, well, well. Raphael really was beginning to grow on Azirafell.

(And seemed less and less deserving of punishment, seeing as he could personally guarantee that the Abortcalypse and Satan's injuries had been Crowley and Azirafell's work, and the archangel was perfectly innocent.*

*As for the love… Raphael was punished enough in that regard, since Azirafell knew from personal experience that it wasn't exactly pleasant to love someone whose nature did not lend itself to loving back.)

A shame that the entire affair was so… _ diplomatically sensitive.  _ If it was up to Azirafell, Raphael would walk out of Hell without a single scratch; but, as it was, a shaky truce was balancing on the knife edge of careful cooperation, and refusal to comply might send them into a Great War despite all of his and Crowley's hard work.

He would try and be kind, then. None of what he did to the truly vile, a token effort more than a true punishment - and, if it was what Michael demanded, a quick, painless death at the end of it all.

"Very well then." Azirafell nodded his assent, reluctant as it might be. "I presume you've already had him brought here?"

"We have." Michael stomped further down the corridor, to one of the cells. "Here."

Azirafell had never met Raphael. Seen Gabriel, spoken with Michael, encountered Uriel and Sandalphon, but his and Raphael's paths had never crossed, as far as he knew.

A strange first meeting, seeing his corporation strung up on one of the racks, slender and naked.

(Azirafell noted he had made an  _ Effort _ . How unangelic.)

His hair was so caked with blood it shone red, and between that and the general body type, a shiver went through Azirafell as he imagined hurting someone who resembled Crowley so intensely.

It was a wretched business, it really was.

The archangels True Form was shackled as well, six once-radiant wings twisted behind his back, held in place with punishingly tight chains, feathers clumped together where pale-gold ichor had leaked from open wounds.

"We've… started, already." Michael said behind him. "Mostly bindings. He will be unable to move, speak, or see, we made sure of that."

Azirafell hummed, stepping up to the slumped form, attempting to peer behind the curtain of hair that might even have been red to begin with.

"So this," he mused, "is Raphae-"

At the sound of his voice, Raphael's head snapped up, and Azirafell's breath caught in his throat.

They were miracled blind, milky and unseeing, but those were  _ Crowley's  _ eyes; and Crowley's fine cheekbones, his familiar lips, even the mark of a snake - now golden, and how had the resemblance to Asclepius's staff never occurred to him!? - and Azirafell felt hot first, then cold, and finally numb all over.

Crowley was Raphael, Raphael was Crowley, and the demon he loved was nothing but a lie.

* * *

  
  


_ Azirafell _ . The beloved voice filtered into Raphael's weary, bruised brain, and for a moment, a glorious moment, he wanted to believe he had been saved.

"If you don't mind, Baron Fell, I will stay while you practice your craft." Michael's voice ripped through his delusions. "There's one or two things we would still like to know."

"You don't know which demon he lo- worked with." Azirafell's voice was devoid of emotion, an indifferent statement rather than a question.

Raphael nearly laughed, if Holy Bindings weren't clamping his throat shut. No, they didn't know, obviously they didn't know, or they wouldn't have called Raphael's lover in to torture him.*

*Or maybe they would've. It wasn't as if Azirafell owed anything to the not-demon who had lied to him for millennia.

"No. But we hope you might be able to find out."

"I don't torture for information."

No inflection whatsoever. Cold. Numb. Not even in regards to a sore spot Azirafell had harboured for centuries, never mind the fact that he was asked to do it to an entity that loved him. Raphael's heart broke a little, and he felt a tear escape his blind eyes.

"Well, make an exception!" Michael snapped impatiently.

"And he said he loves this demon?" Azirafell murmured, tracing the tear's path with one clawed finger. "Truly and fully?"

"Yes." Michael said, and Crowley fought to incline his head in the tiniest, weakest nod, because he needed Azirafell to know it was the truth from as close to his own mouth as he could get.

"...I see."

"I'm sure it's in Hell's best interest to acquire his co-conspirators name, as well." Michael continued. "You may kill him after. We tried to make him Fall, but it… wouldn't stick. We have no need for traitorous archangels in our ranks."

"Naturally not."

_ Azirafell, please. I'm so sorry, forgive me, forgive me, I never meant to, I love you, believe me, please… _ Crowley begged wordlessly, tears now running freely down his cheeks, mingling with blood and just holy enough to sizzle lightly on the grimy floor.

And still, the demon seemed distant, disinterested, uncaring, elegant shoes squelching on the dirty floor as he walked in a slow circle, inspecting Raphael, paying extra attention to the six wings.

"These are claw marks." Azirafell mentioned calmly, tapping against the scratches along Raphael's shoulder blades that he himself had placed there. "Should narrow down your suspect list considerably, should it not?"

Raphael trembled, a weak sob caught in his chest.

"Oh, yes. We have a photograph, but only the hands are clearly visible."

"Identify the claws, identify the demon?"

"So we've been hoping."

"Hm."

Azirafell's hand now rested on Raphael's bare chest, over his heart, claws only digging ever so slightly into the skin, betraying the tension, the  _ fury _ beneath the calm exterior.

"Perhaps I might help you." He said, softly.

And Raphael understood the game he was playing.

He would blame another demon, whichever minor lizard-wretch fit the bill - who would think to doubt the word of a Baron of Hell? - and rid himself of suspicion and Raphael in one fell swoop, since there would be no need to keep him alive once "his demon lover" was identified.

Azirafell itched to kill him - as was his right, Raphael supposed - and this would be the easiest way to acquire permission for it.

Raphael bowed his neck, and thanked Her for the small mercy of not having to see Azirafell's face while he'd be killing him.

The hand left his chest.

"For instance, these claws… might they have looked something like  _ this?" _

"Why, yes." A light note of surprise in Michael's voice. "Pretty much  _ exactly _ like…"

A beat.

" _ Oh, Lord _ ." She said, with the air of someone who has only just realised their life ought to have been flashing before their eyes since five minutes ago.

"I'm afraid She cannot help you now." Azirafell said, almost kindly.

A cut-off, strangled scream - and that was all.

* * *

  
  


Azirafell dug his claws deeper into the flesh of Michael's corporation, baring his teeth as her eyes widened in sheer terror.

"Now. I would like you, and all the Heavenly Host, to know the following," he whispered gently to her. " _ Harm one hair on his head again, and I will flay your ethereal essences from your corporations with a very blunt blade and dip them in Hellfire. _ Am I understood? _ " _

Michael gurgled wetly, and nodded.

"Lovely." Azirafell smiled darkly, and twisted his fingers.

Her corporation went first taut, then limp, and finally fell where she'd stood.

Azirafell didn't watch her hit the ground, already at Crow-  _ Raphael's _ side, digging his claws into the bindings and the chains and  _ ripping _ ferociously, metal clattering to the floor and Grace evaporating into the ether, until Raphael was freed enough to slump forward into Azirafell's waiting arms.

"Oh, hush, my darling, hush now." Azirafell cooed, gently lowering the trembling body to the ground, shaking legs in no position to do anything but fold underneath him. "They'll not hurt you again. I am here my sweet, no tears now."

Raphael -  _ the archangel Raphael _ , he could scarcely believe it - was still sobbing, face buried against Azirafell's shoulder, hands clenched painfully around his lapels and whimpering an endless litany of apologies and pleas for forgiveness.

"None of that." Azirafell huffed, petting the hair he loved so well. "I am affronted, don't believe I'm not, but… above all, I am relieved."

Raphael blinked up at him, with eyes of heavenly gold.

"W-why?" He rasped.

"Because you love me." Azirafell answered simply, and had to close his eyes and revel in the sheer bliss of that thought for a moment. "As I love you, have loved you for many years now."

Raphael looked distinctly as if someone had slapped him in the face with everything he could possibly want in life.

"...I lied to you." He murmured uncertainly, drawing his shaking wings* about himself protectively as if fearing that the reminder might send Azirafell into a terrible rage.

*They were impossibly beautiful, even so ragged, and it was strange how all these new features that ought to appall him seemed to Azirafell like they were always meant to be there.

"My dear, I  _ am _ a demon." He dryly pointed out. "Lies are a minor matter to us. I loved you as Crowley, I will love you as Raphael, too, as far as I am concerned."

He was still idly petting him, now running one blood-smeared hand down his spine, and Raphael pushed into the caress with a shiver.

(Lord Satan, it occurred to him now, he had  _ bedded an archangel, _ led the Highest of the Host into Temptation and had him mewling and gasping in the throes of his basest desires.

If that wasn't a real feather in his wing, Azirafell didn't know  _ what _ was.)

Azirafell gently draped his overcoat over Raphael's shivering form,* and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "We haven't prevented the Apocalypse merely to lose each other now, my dear."

*Getting him to release the lapels was a bit of a struggle, but once it was made clear that Azirafell was by no means intending to sever physical contact, Raphael let the coat go.

"Hng." Raphael let out a soft sound, and curled himself further into Azirafell's arms. "Bosses won't like it."

"No, I don't imagine they will." Azirafell threw a cold glance at Michael's empty corporation. "But I intend to make sure they  _ never _ touch you again. You hear that, my darling? Never."

And Raphael, bleeding and in pain in the darkest, dirtiest pit of Hell, lying in the arms of the demon he loved, smiled so wide he felt his face might simply split in two from happiness.

"Never," he agreed, delighted and trusting and so, so in love.

"I do expect it to go both ways, of course. You've thrown Holy Water at Satan  _ once, _ I expect you to do it again in the name of protecting me, if need be."

"Ngk. Sure."

They beamed at each other.

And then, they went back upstairs, back to earth.

Or, perhaps more accurately:

They went back home.

* * *

  
  


"Well." Said Gabriel, uncomfortably.

"Yezzz." Beelzebub agreed, poking the observation reports with the disdain of someone who wished they were unable to read after all.

"I suppose we ought to… put a stop to it."

"Zzzure."

"Smite them both out of existence and preserve the balance of All Things."

"'Courzzze."

"It's probably Her Will, too."

"Abzzzolutely."

They were silent for a while.

" _ Or, _ " said Beelzebub. "We clozzze their files and pretend they don't exizzzt, zzzince thizzz entire affair izzz embarrazzzing enough azzz izzz."

"Now,  _ that's  _ what I call quick thinking!" Gabriel beamed at his most regional-manager-ish, and simply chucked the documents into the ether. "Want to have a drink? I could certainly use one after this."

"With  _ you!?" _ Beelzebub shuddered. "Zzzatan, no!"

"Hmm. Fair." Gabriel inclined his head. "Best not to, eh?"

After all, they now had conclusive evidence that nothing good ever came of archangels and high-ranking demons mingling...

(Yes, the archangel and demon in question looked rather ecstatically happy and in love on any and all observational material, but… that didn't mean… well…

They were probably just pretending. Yes.

And the wedding, well, the wedding had just been to spite their ex-superiors.

_ Obviously. _ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand there we go, happy ending as promised!  
> Hope you enjoyed - you especially Nemo, I'm so glad I got your prompt, it was such fun to write! - and MERRY CHRISTMAS OR HANUKKAH OR OTHER HOLIDAY TO YOU ALL!  
> <3 <3 <3
> 
> (And now to write on that Christmas Carol AU I've got halfway done... maybe keep an eye out for that, if you'd like! ;))
> 
> P.S. illustration chapter will be up tomorrow!


	6. An Addition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the promised art!  
> Two inked sketches of Azirafell and Raphael's character design, as well as the earth observation photograph from ch. 4!

Bonus:

It ends as it started; with a Garden. Only, this one is situated in the South Downs, and around a cosy little cottage.

"Say." Said Azirafell, out of the blue and in the middle of tending the apple tree . "The archangels used to attack me quite frequently."

"...yeah?" Raphael said cautiously from his garden chair.

"Raphael, my dear, sweet darling, _you_ are an archangel, aren't you?"

"...not anymore, I'm not."

"But you _were._ "

"Hnnngyeah."

"So, it stands to reason you were indeed among those brutes who delighted in clobbering me with Holy Weaponry."

"Ngk."

"And the Holy Water booby traps."

A slightly more guilty "ngk", indicating that Raphael had been far more involved in _those_ plans than the all-out attacks.

"And the-"

"Azirafell," Raphael interrupted. "Look, I could say how terribly sorry I am about it all, explain how I wasn't really trying, and probably start crying at some point. And you'll feel quite guilty for bringing it up, and we won't speak for the rest of the evening. So, how about we go to the kitchen instead, and after eating the leftover cake in the fridge, you get to bend me over the counter like I know you've always wanted to, you lecherous, depraved spawn of Hell."*

*Azirafell flushed, and murmured "oh, you sweet-talker" under his breath.

"How does that sound?"

Azirafell thought on it.

"Amenable." He concluded with a wicked smile.

And, together, they left the Garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this it - thank you all for your lovely comments, and for sticking by this story, and have a Merry Christmas/Happy Hanukkah/Joyful Other Holiday, as well as a Happy New Year!
> 
> >shamelessly self-promotes first chapter of [Christmas Carol AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944281/chapters/52372249) <


End file.
